POEMS. 


BY 


RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD. 


BOSTON : 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS 

M  l)CCC  LII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 

TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALF    AND    COMPANY, 
PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


THESE     POEMS 

ARE      DEDICATED      TO      MY     FRIEND 

BAYARD  TAYLOR, 

WHOM    I    ADMIRE    AS    A   POET, 
AND    LOVE    AS    A    MAN. 

R.    II.    S. 


M41723 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR          ......  3 

ARCADIAN  HYMN  TO  FLORA          .         .         .         .         .  21 

ODE 31 

LEONATUS             . 37 

SPRING            .........  43 

AUTUMN 47 

THE  WITCH'S  WHELP 51 

HYMN  TO  THE  BEAUTIFUL              54 

To  A  CELEBRATED  SINGER       ......  5^ 

THE  Two  GATES 63 

THE  BROKEN  GOBLET 65 

ARCADIAN  IDYL            .......  70 

THE  SOUTH 74 

TRIUMPHANT  Music     .......  77 

MEMORY          .........  80 

HARLEY  RIVER 82 

THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SHOP          .         .         .         .         .         .86 

THE  OLD  ELM 89 

Lu  Lu             92 

KAM  Pou              93 

A  HOUSEHOLD  DIRGE       .         .         .         .         .         ,         .96 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

SONGS     AND     SONNETS. 
"HOW  ARE  SONGS  BEGOT  AND  BRED?"          .         .         .         101 

SILENT  SONGS  102 

AN  IDEAL  103 

"SHE  LEFT  THE  WORLD  IN  EARLY  YOUTH"  .  .  .104 
"THERE  's  A  NEW  GRAVE  IN  THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD"  .  105 
SONG,  —  "WE  LOVE  IN  YOUTH"  .  .  .  .  .106 

A  PRELUDE 107 

IN  THE  HAREM 108 

THE  ARAB  STEED 109 

SONG,  —  "  You  KNOW  THE  OLD  HIDALGO  "  .  .  .110 
SONG,  —  "  THE  WALLS  OF  CADIZ  FRONT  THE  SHORE  "  ,  111 
THE  Two  BRIDES 112 

"  I    SYMPATHIZE    WITH    ALL    THY    GRIEF"  .  .  .  113 

A  SERENADE  .         .         .         ,         .         .         .         .114 

"THE  YELLOW  MOON  LOOKS  SLANTLY  DOWN"        .         .         115 

"  ALONG  THE  GRASSY  SLOPE  i  SIT  " 116 

SUMMER       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         117 

To  A  NIGHTINGALE  . 119 

To  B.  T 121 

"THE  SUN  PURSUES  HIS  STARRY  ROUND  IN  SPACE"  .         .122 

To  W.  J.  R 123 

THE  GAME  OF  CIIESS       .         .         .         .         .         .         .124 

FROM  A  PLAY .         126 


POEMS. 


THE  CASTLE  IN   THE  AIR. 


WE  have  two  lives  about  us, 

Two  worlds  in  which  we  dwell ; 

Within  us,  and  without  us, 

Alternate  Heaven  and  Hell  : 

Without,  the  sombre  Real, 
Within  our  heart  of  hearts,  the  beautiful  Ideal ! 
I  stand  between  the  portals  of  the  two, 
Fettered  and  cramped  with  many  a  heavy  chain, 
Whose  links  I  strive  to  rend,  but  all  in  vain, 
So  strong  the  False  that  holds  me  from  the  True ; 
In  dreams  alone  my  spirit  wanders  o'er 
The  starry  threshold  of  the  world  of  bliss, 
And  lives  the  life  that  Fate  denies  in  this, 
Which  may  have  once  been  mine,  but  will  be  —  never 
more  ! 


II. 

My  Castle  stands  alone, 

In  some  delicious  clime, 

Away  from  Earth  and  Time, 

In  Fancy's  tropic  zone, 

Beneath  its  summer  skies, 

Where  all  the  livelong  year  the  summer  never  dies  ! 
A  stately  marble  pile,  whose  pillars  rise 
From  sculptured  bases,  fluted  to  the  dome, 
With  wreathed  friezes  crowned,  and  rare  device 
Of  carven  leaves  like  pendant  drifts  of  foam  ; 
A  thousand  windows  front  the  rising  sun, 
Deep-set  between  the  columns,  many  paned, 
Tri-arched,  emblazoned,  gorgeously  stained, 
Crimson  and  purple,  green  and  blue  and  dun, 
And  all  their  wedded  colors  fall  below, 
Like  rainbows  shattered  on  a  field  of  snow. 
Before  the  Castle  lies  a  shaven  lawn, 
Sloping  and  sparkling  in  the  dews  of  dawn, 
With  turfy  terraces,  and  garden  bowers 
Where  rows  of  slender  urns  are  full  of  flowers  ; 
Broad  oaks  o'erarch  the  winding  avenues 
Edged  round  with  evergreens  of  fadeless  bloom, 
And  pour  a  thousand  intermingling  hues, 
A  misty  flood  of  green  and  golden  gloom  : 
Far-seen  through  twinkling  leaves, 


The  fountains  gush  aloft  like  silver  sheaves, 
Drooping  with  shining  ears,  and  crests  of  spray, 
And  foamy  tassels  blowing  every  way, 
Shaking  in  marble  basins,  white  and  cold, 
A  drainless  beaded  shower  of  diamond  grain, 
Which  winnows  off  in  sun-illumined  rain 
Its  dusty  chaff,  a  cloud  of  misty  gold ; 
And  snowy  swans  are  floating  round  the  tide, 
Through  beds  of  bowing  lilies  chaste  and  white, 
Like  virgin  queens  in  soft  disdain  and  pride 
Sweeping  amid  their  maids  with  trains  of  light. 
A  little  herd  of  deer,  with  startled  looks, 
In  quiet  parks  within  whose  shade  they  browse, 
Drink  from  the  lucid  brooks, 
Their  antlers  mirrored  with  the  tangled  boughs. 
My  rivers  flow  beyond,  with  guardant  ranks 
Of  silver-liveried  poplars  on  their  banks  ; 
And  barges  rock  along  the  grassy  piers, 
With  gilded  pennons  blown  from  side  to  side  ; 
And  bridges  span  the  waves  with  arches  wide, 
Their  stony  'butments  mossed  and  gray  with  years  ; 
Then  comes  a  dreamy  range  of  hazy  bowers, 
With  rounded  hills,  and  hollow  vales  between, 
And  folded  lawns  in  everlasting  green  ;  — 
And  then  a  line  of  palaces  and  towers, 
That  lessen  on  till  mountains  bar  the  view, 
Shooting  their  jagged  peaks  sublimely  up  the  blue  ! 


6 


in. 

I  stroll  along  the  walks 

With  sandals  wetted  through, 

From  dripping  flowers  and  stalks 

That  fringe  the  avenue  ; 
My  broidered  mantle  twice  begemmed  with  dropping 

dew ! 

Then  up  an  echoing  colonnade  I  go, 
With  shadowy  pillars  ranged  athwart  the  light, 
Then  climb  a  flight  of  stairs,  ascending  slow, 
Then  through  a  porch,  and  through  a  portal  bright, 
And  I  am  in  my  Castle,  lord  of  all, 
Reflected  gaily  o'er  its  polished  floor, 
With  grooms  and  pages  hurrying  at  my  call, 
And  cringing  chamberlains  at  every  door, 
Who  wave  their  wands  and  wait 
To  bow  me  on  my  way  in  royal  pomp  and  state  ! 

IV. 

My  chamber  lies  apart, 

The  Castle's  very  heart, 

And  all  things  rich  and  rare, 

From  land,  and  sea,  and  air, 

Are  lavished  with  a  wild  and  waste  profusion  there  ! 
The  carpeting  was  woven  in  Turkish  looms, 
From  softest  wool  of  fine  Circassian  sheep, 
Tufted  like  springy  moss  in  forests  deep, 


Illuminate  with  all  its  autumn  blooms ; 

The  antique  chairs  are  made  of  cedar-trees, 

Felled  on  the  lofty  peaks  of  Lebanon, 

Veined  with  the  rings  of  vanished  centuries, 

And  touched  with  frost  and  sun ; 

Sofas  and  couches,  stuffed  with  cygnet's  fleece, 

Loll  round,  inviting  dreaminess  and  ease  ; 

The  gorgeous  window-curtains,  damask-red, 

Suspended,  silver-ringed,  on  bars  of  gold, 

Droop  heavily,  in  many  a  fluted  fold, 

And,  rounding  outward,  intercept  and  shed 

The  prisoned  daylight  o'er  the  slumberous  room, 

In  streams  of  rosy  dimness,  purple  gloom  ; 

Hard  by  are  cabinets  of  curious  shells, 

Twisted  and  jointed,  horned,  wreathed,  and  curled, 

And  some  like  moons  in  rainbow  mist  impearled, 

With  coral  boughs  from  ocean's  deepest  cells  ; 

Cases  of  rare  medallions,  coins  antique, 

Found  in  the  dust  of  cities,  Roman,  Greek ; 

And  urns  of  alabaster,  soft  and  bright, 

With  fauns  and  dancing  shepherds  on  their  sides  ; 

And  costly  marble  vases  dug  from  night 

In  Pompeii,  beneath  its  lava-tides  : 

Clusters  of  arms,  the  spoil  of  ancient  wars, 

Old  scymitars  of  true  Damascus  brand, 

Short  swords  with  basket  hilts  to  guard  the  hand, 


8 


And  iron  casques  with  rusty  visor-bars  ; 
Lances,  and  spears,  and  battle-axes  keen, 
With  crescent  edges,  shields  with  studded  thorns, 
Yew  bows,  and  shafts,  and  curved  bugle-horns 
With  tasselled  baldricks  of  the  Lincoln  green : 
And  on  the  walls  with  lifted  curtains,  see  ! 
The  portraits  of  my  noble  ancestry ; 
Thin-featured,  stately  dames  with  powdered  locks, 
And  courtly  shepherdesses  tending  flocks, 
Stiff  lords  in  wigs,  and  ruffles  white  as  snow, 
Haught  peers,  and  princes  centuries  ago, 
And  dark  Sir  Hugh,  the  bravest  of  the  line, 
With  all  the  knightly  scars  he  won  in  Palestine ! 

v. 

My  gallery  sleeps  aloof, 

Soft-lighted  through  the  roof, 

Enshrining  pictures  old, 

And  statues  pure  and  cold, 

The  gems  of  Art,  when  Art  was  in  her  Age  of  Gold  ! 
Not  picked  from  any  single  age  or  clime, 
Nor  one  peculiar  master,  school,  or  tone  ; 
Select  of  all,  the  best  of  all  alone, 
The  garnered  excellence  of  Earth  and  Time  : 
Food  for  all  thoughts  and  fancies,  grave  or  gay ; 
Suggestive  of  old  lore,  and  poets1  themes  ; 


9 


These  filled  with  shapes  of  waking  life  and  day, 
And  those  with  spirits,  and  the  world  of  dreams. 
Let  me  draw  back  the  curtains,  one  by  one, 
And  give  their  muffled  brightness  to  the  sun  : 

THE    PICTURES. 

Helen  and  Paris  on  their  bridal  night, 
Under  the  swinging  cressets'  starry  light, 
With  hoary  Priam  and  his  sons  around, 
Feasting  in  all  their  majesty  and  bloom, 
Filling  their  golden  cups  with  eager  hands, 
To  drink  a  health,  while  pale  Cassandra  stands 
In  prophecy,  with  raven  locks  unbound, 
Her  soul  overshadowed  by  the  coming  doom. 

Andromache,  with  all  her  tearful  charms, 
Folded  upon  the  mighty  Hector's  breast, 
And  the  babe  shrinking  in  its  Nurse's  arms, 
Affrightened  by  the  nodding  of  his  crest. 

The  giant  Cyclops,  sitting  in  his  cave, 
Helped  by  divine  Ulysses,  old  and  wise, 
Spilling  the  wine  in  rivers  down  his  beard, 
While  swart  Silenus,  sly  and  cunning  knave, 
Leers  o'er  his  shoulder,  reassured  and  cheered, 
Stealing  a  swollen  skin  with  twinkling  eyes. 


10 


Anacreon,  lolling  in  the  myrtle  shades, 
Bibbing  his  Teian  draughts  with  rich  delight, 
Pledging  the  dancing  girls  and  Cyprian  maids, 
Pinching  their  little  ears,  and  shoulders  white. 

A  cloudless  sunrise  on  the  glittering  Nile, 
Gilding  the  Sphinx  and  temples  on  the  shore, 
And  robed  priests,  that  toss  their  censers,  while, 
Abased  in  dust,  the  populace  adore  ; 
A  beaked  galley  fretting  at  its  curb, 
With  reedy  oars,  and  masts,  and  silken  sails, 
And  Cleopatra  walks  the  deck  superb, 
Slow-followed  by  her  court  in  shining  veils. 

The  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  Holy  Child, 
Holding  a  globe  and  sceptre,  sweet  and  mild ; 
The  Magi  bring  their  gifts  with  reverend  looks, 
And  the  rapt  Shepherds  lean  upon  their  crooks. 

A  courtly  summer  fete  in  shady  bowers  ; 
Bowing  gallants,  with  plumed  caps  in  hand, 
And  ladies  with  guitars  on  banks  of  flowers, 
And  merry  rustics  dancing  in  a  band. 

A  bleak  defile,  a  pass  in  mountains  deep, 

Whose  whitened  summits  wear  their  morning  glow, 


11 


And  dark  banditti  winding  down  the  steep 
Of  shelvy  rocks,  pointing  their  guns  below. 

A  harvest  scene,  a  vineyard  on  the  Rhine ; 
Arbors,  and  wreathed  screens,  and  laughing  swains 
Pouring  their  crowded  baskets  into  wains, 
And  vats,  and  trodden  presses  gushing  wine. 

A  Flemish  Tavern :  boors  and  burghers  hale 
Drawn  round  a  table,  o'er  a  board  of  chess, 
Smoking  their  heavy  pipes,  and  drinking  ale, 
Blowing  from  tankard  brims  the  frothiness. 

A  picture  of  Cathay,  a  justice  scene  ; 
Pagodas,  statues,  and  a  group  around, 
And,  in  his  sedan  chair,  the  Mandarin, 
Reading  the  scroll  of  laws  to  prisoners  bound, 
Bambooed  with  canes,  and  writhing  on  the  ground. 
And  many  more  whose  veils  I  will  undraw 
Some  other  day,  exceeding  rare  and  fine  ; 
And  statues  of  the  Grecian  gods  divine, 
In  all  their  various  moods  of  love  and  awe  : 
The  Phidian  Jove,  with  calm,  creative  face, 
Broodingin  thought  above  the  deeps  of  Space  ; 
Imperial  Juno,  Mercury  winged-heeled, 
Lit  with  a  message,  Mars  with  helm  and  shield, 


12 


Apollo  with  the  discus,  bent  to  throw, 
The  piping  Pan,  and  Dian  with  her  bow, 
And  Cytherea  just  risen  from  the  swell 
Of  crudded  foam,  half-stooping  on  her  knee, 
Wringing  her  dripping  tresses  in  the  sea, 
Whose  loving  billows  climb  the  curved  shell 
Tumultuously,  and  o'er  its  edges  flow, 
And  kiss  with  pallid  lips  her  nakedness  of  snow  ! 

VI. 

My  books  may  lie  and  mould, 

However  rare  and  old  ; 

I  cannot  read  to-day. 

Away  with  books,  away ! 

Full-fed  with  sweets  of  sense, 
I  sink  upon  my  couch  in  honeyed  indolence  ! 
Here  are  rich  salvers  full  of  nectarines, 
Dead-ripe  pomegranates,  and  Arabian  dates, 
Peaches  and  plums,  and  clusters  fresh  from  vines, 
And  all  imaginable  sweets,  and  cates  ; 
And  here  are  drinking-cups,  and  long-necked  flasks 
In  wicker  mail,  and  bottles  broached  from  casks 
In  cellars  delved  deep,  and  winter-cold, 
Select,  superlative,  and  centuries  old. 
What  more  can  I  desire  ?  what  book  can  be 
As  rich  as  Idleness  and  Luxury  ? 


13 


What  lore  can  fill  my  heart  with  joy  divine, 
Like  luscious  fruitage,  and  enchanted  wine  ? 
Brimming  with  Helicon  I  dash  the  cup : 
Why  should  I  waste  my  years  in  hoarding  up 
The  thoughts  of  eld  ?     Let  dust  to  dust  return  : 
No  more  for  me, —  my  heart  is  not  an  urn  ! 
I  will  no  longer  sip  from  little  flasks, 
Covered  with  damp  and  mould,  when  Nature  yields 
A  riper  growth,  from  later  vintage-fields ; 
Nor  peer  at  Beauty,  dimmed  with  mortal  masks, 
When  I  at  will  may  have  them  all  .withdrawn, 
And  freely  gaze  in  her  transfigured  face  ; 
Nor  limp  in  fetters  in  a  weary  race, 
When  I  may  fly  unbound,  like  Mercury's  fawn  ; 
No  more  contented  with  the  sweets  of  old, 
Albeit  embalmed  in  nectar,  since  the  trees, 
The  Eden  bowers,  the  rich  Hesperides, 
Still  droop  around  my  path,  with  living  fruits  of  gold  ! 

VII. 

O,  what  a  life  is  mine  ! 
A  life  of  light  and  mirth, 
The  sensuous  life  of  Earth, 
For  ever  fresh  and  fine, 
A  heavenly  worldliness,  mortality  divine  ! 
When  eastern  skies,  the  sea,  and  misty  plain 


14 


Illumined  slowly,  doff  their  nightly  shrouds, 

And  Heaven's  bright  archer  Morn  begins  to  rain 

His  golden  arrows  through  the  banded  clouds, 

I  rise  and  tramp  away  the  jocund  hours, 

Knee-deep  in  dewy  grass,  and  beds  of  flowers  ; 

I  race  my  eager  greyhound  on  the  hills, 

And  climb  with  bounding  feet  the  craggy  steeps, 

Peak-lifted,  gazing  down  the  cloven  deeps, 

Where  mighty  rivers  shrink  to  threaded  rills  ; 

The  ramparts  of  the  mountains  loom  around, 

Like  splintered  fragments  of  a  ruined  world ; 

The  cliff-bound  dashing  cataracts,  downward  hurled 

In  thunderous  volumes,  shake  the  chasms  profound  ; 

The  imperial  eagle  with  a  dauntless  eye 

Wheels  round  the  sun,  the  monarch  of  the  sky  ; 

I  pluck  his  eyrie  in  the  blasted  wood 

Of  ragged  pines,  and  when  the  vulture  screams, 

I  track  its  flight  along  the  solitude, 

Like  some  dark  spirit  in  the  world  of  dreams ! 

When  Noon  in  golden  armor,  travel-spent, 

Climbing  the  azure  plains  of  Heaven,  alone, 

Draws  back  the  curtains  of  his  cloudy  tent, 

And  looks  o'er  Nature  from  his  burning  throne, 

I  loose  my  little  shallop  from  its  quay, 

And  down  the  winding  stream  it  slowly  floats, 

The  while  I  steer  in  many  a  cove  and  bay, 


15 


Where  birds  are  warbling  with  melodious  throats  ; 
I  listen  to  the  humming  of  the  bees, 
The  water's  flow,  the  winds,  the  wavy  trees, 
Then  take  my  lute,  and  touch  its  silver  chords, 
And  set  the  Summer's  melody  to  words  ; 
Sometimes  I  rove  beside  the  lonely  shore, 
Margined  and  flanked  by  slanting  shelvy  ledges, 
Bastioned  by  old  gray  rocks  with  dripping  edges, 
And  caverns  echoing  Ocean's  sullen  roar  ; 
Threading  the  bladdery  weeds  and  paven  shells, 
Beyond  the  line  of  foam,  the  jewelled  chain, 
The  largesse  of  the  ever-giving  main, 
Tossed  at  the  feet  of  Earth  with  surgy  swells, 
I  plunge  into  the  waves,  and  strike  away, 
Breasting  with  vigorous  strokes  the  snowy  spray  ; 
Sometimes  I  lounge  in  arbors  hung  with  vines, 
And  press  the  bunchy  grapes  in  various  wines, 
The  which  I  sip,  and  sip,  with  pleasure  mute, 
O'er  mouthful  bites  of  golden-rinded  fruit, 
Parting  their  separate  flavors,  bliss  by  bliss, 
Like  one  who  swoons  in  some  immortal  kiss  ! 
When  Evening  comes,  I  lie  in  dreamy  rest, 
Where  lifted  casements  front  the  glowing  west, 
And  watch  the  clouds,  like  banners  wide  unfurled, 
Hung  o'er  the  flaming  threshold  of  the  world  : 
Its  mission  done,  the  holy  Day  recedes, 


16 


Borne  Heavenward  in  its  car,  with  fiery  steeds, 
Leaving  behind  a  lingering  flush  of  light, 
Its  mantle  fallen  at  the  feet  of  Night ; 
The  flocks  are  penned,  the  earth  is  growing  dim, 
The  moon  comes  rounding  up  the  welkin's  rim, 
Glowing  through  thinnest  mist,  an  argent  shell, 
Washed  from  the  caves  of  darkness  on  a  swell ; 
One  after  one  the  stars  begin  to  shine 
In  drifted  beds,  like  pearls  through  shallow  brine  ; 
And  lo  !  through  clouds  that  part  before  the  chase 
Of  silent  winds  —  a  belt  of  milky  white, 
The  Galaxy,  a  crested  surge  of  light, 
A  reef  of  worlds  along  the  sea  of  Space  : 
I  hear  my  sweet  musicians  far  withdrawn, 
Below  my  wreathed  lattice,  on  the  lawn, 
With  harp,  and  lute,  and  lyre, 
And  passionate  voices  full  of  tears  and  fire, 
And  envious  nightingales  with  rich  disdain 
Filling  the  pauses  of  the  languid  strain ; 
My  soul  is  tranced  and  bound, 
Drifting  along  the  magic  sea  of  sound, 
Driven  in  a  bark  of  bliss  from  deep  to  deep, 
And  piloted  at  last  into  the  ports  of  Sleep  ! 

VIII. 

Nor  only  this,  though  this 
Might  seal  a  life  of  bliss, 


17 


But  something  more  divine, 

For  which  I  once  did  pine, 

The  crown  of  worlds  above, 

The  heart  of  every  heart,  the  Soul  of  Being,  —  Love  ! 
I  bow  obedient  to  my  Lady's  sway, 
The  sovereignty  that  won  my  soul  of  yore, 
And  linger  in  her  presence  night  and  day, 
And  feel  a  heaven  around  her  evermore  ; 
I  sit  beside  her  couch  in  chambers  lone, 
And  oft  unbraid,  and  lay  her  locks  apart, 
And  take  her  taper  fingers  in  my  own, 
And  press  them  to  my  lips  with  leaps  of  heart : 
Sometimes  I  kneel  to  her  with  cups  of  wine, 
With  pleading  eyes,  beseeching  her  to  taste, 
And  when  she  sips  thereof,  I  clasp  her  waist, 
And  kiss  her  budding  mouth  that  answers  mine 
With  long-delaying  lips,  and  shake  her  curls, 
And  in  her  coy  despite  unloose7  her  zone  of  pearls  ! 
I  live  for  Love,  for  Love  alone,  and  who 
Dare  chide  me  for  it  ?  who  dare  call  it  folly  ? 
It  is  a  holy  thing,  if  aught  is  holy, 
And  true  indeed,  if  Truth  herself  is  true  : 
Earth  yearns  for  earth,  its  sensuous  life  is  dear ; 
Mortals  should  love  mortality  while  here, 
And  seize  the  glowing  hours  before  they  fly : 
2 


18 


And  eyes  should  answer  eyes,  and  lips  should  meet, 
And  hearts  enlocked  to  kindred  hearts  should  beat, 
Till  all  that  live  on  earth  in  love  should  live,  and  die  ! 

IX. 

My  dear  and  gentle  wife, 

The  Angel  of  my  life, 

Who  stirs  its  deepest  springs, 

Has  folded  up  her  wings, 

And  lies  in  slumber  deep, 

Like  some  divinest  Dream  upon  the  couch  of  Sleep  ! 
Nor  sound  nor  stir  profanes  the  stilly  room, 
Haunted  by  Sleep  and  Silence,  linked  pair ; 
The  very  light  itself  muffled  in  gloom 
Steals  in,  and  melts  into  the  enamored  air 
Where  Love  doth  brood  and  dream,  while  Passion 

dies, 

Breathing  his  soul  out  in  a  mist  of  sighs  ! 
Lo  !  where  she  lies  behind  the  curtains  white, 
Pillowed  on  clouds  of  down,  —  her  golden  hair 
Braided  around  her  forehead  smooth  and  fair, 
Like  a  celestial  diadem  of  light : 
Her  soft,  voluptuous  lips  are  drawn  apart, 
Curving  in  fine  repose  and  maiden  pride  ; 
Her  creamy  breast  —  its  mantle  brushed  aside  — 
Betrays  the  slow  pulsation  of  her  heart  : 


19 


One  languid  arm  rests  on  the  coverlid, 
And  one  beneath  the  crumpled  sheets  is  hid, 
(Ah  happy  sheets !  to  hide  an  arm  so  sweet !) 
Nor  all  concealed  amid  their  folds  of  snow 
The  soft  perfection  of  her  shape  below, 
Rounded,  and  tapering  to  her  little  feet ! 

0  Love  !  if  Beauty  ever  left  her  sphere, 
And  sovereign  sisters  Art  and  Poesy, 
Moulded  in  loveliness  she  slumbers  here, 
Slumbers,  dear  love,  in  thee  ! 

It  is  thy  smile  that  makes  the  chamber  still ; 
It  is  thy  breath  that  fills  the  scented  air ; 
The  light  around  is  borrowed  from  thy  hair, 
And  all  things  else  are  subject  to  thy  will, 
And  I  am  so  bewildered  in  this  deep, 
Ambrosial  calm,  and  drowsy  atmosphere, 

1  know  not  whether  I  am  dreaming  here, 

Or  in  the  world  of  Sleep  ! 

x. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 

My  heart  is  full  of  pain, 

To  wake,  as  now,  again, 

And  walk,  as  in  my  youth,  the  wilderness  of  Years ! 
No  more !  no  more  !  the  autumn  winds  are  loud 
In  stormy  passes,  howling  to  the  Night : 


20 


Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  doth  veil  her  light, 
And  the  rain  pours  from  out  the  horned  cloud  ; 
And  hark  !  the  solemn  and  mysterious  bell, 
Swinging  its  brazen  echoes  o'er  the  wave  : 
Not  mortal  hands,  but  spirits,  ring  the  knell, 
And  toll  the  parting  ghost  of  Midnight  to  its  grave  ! 
Miserere  mei  ! 
Alone  in  utter  woe  I 


21 


ARCADIAN  HYMN  TO  FLORA. 

COME,  all  ye  virgins  fair,  in  kirtles  white, 
Ye  debonair  and  merry-hearted  maids, 
Who  have  been  out  in  troops  before  the  light, 
And  gathered  blossoms  in  the  dewy  shades  : 
The  footprints  of  the  fiery-sandalled  Day 
Are  glowing  in  the  east  like  kindling  coals, 
The  clouds  are  golden-rimmed  like  burning  scrolls 
And  in  the  west  the  darkness  melts  away  : 
The  shrine  is  wreathed  with  leaves,  the  holy  urns 

Brimming  with  morning  dew  are  laid  thereby  ; 
The  censers  swing,  the  odorous  incense  burns, 

And  floats  in  misty  volumes  up  the  sky  ; 
Lay  down  your  garlands,  and  your  baskets  trim, 
Heaped  up  with  floral  offerings  to  the  brim, 
And  knit  your  snowy  hands,  and  trip  away 
With  light  and  nimble  feet, 
To  music  soft  and  sweet, 


22 


And  celebrate  the  joyous  break  of  day, 
And  sing  a  hymn  to  Flora,  Queen  of  May  ! 

0  Flora !  sweetest  Flora,  goddess  bright, 

Impersonation  of  selectest  things, 

The  soul  and  spirit  of  a  thousand  Springs, 
Bodied  in  all  their  loveliness  and  light, 
A  delicate  creation  of  the  mind, 

Fashioned  in  its  divinest,  daintiest  mould, 

In  the  bright  age  of  gold, 
Before  the  world  was  wholly  lost  and  blind, 
But  saw  and  entertained  with  thankful  heart 

The  gods  as  guests,  —  O  Flora  !  goddess  dear, 
Immaculate,  immortal  as  thou  art, 

Thou  wert  a  maiden  once,  like  any  here  ; 
And  thou  didst  tend  thy  flowers  with  proper  care, 
And  shield  them  from  the  sun,  and.  chilly  air, 
Wetting  thy  little  sandals  through  and  through, 
As  is  the  wont  of  maids,  in  morning  dew, 
Roving  among  the  urns,  and  mossy  pots, 
About  the  hedges,  and  the  garden  plots, 
Straightening  and  binding  up  the  drooping  stalks 
That  kissed  thy  sweeping  garments  in  the  walks, 
Setting  thy  dibble  deep,  and  sowing  seeds, 
And  careful-handed  plucking  out  the  weeds,  — 
Not  more  divine  than  we  this  vernal  morn, 


23 


Till  Zephyr  saw  thee  in  the  dews  of  May  ;  — 

Flying  behind  the  chariot  of  the  Day, 
With  love  and  grief  forlorn, 

Sighing  the  while  amid  the  laughing  Hours, 
Pining  for  something  bright  which  haunted  him, 
Sleeping  on  beds  of  flowers  in  arbors  dim, 
Breaking  his  tender  heart  with  love  extreme, 

He  saw  thee  on  the  earth  amid  thy  flowers, 

The  spirit  of  his  dream  ! 
Entranced  with  passionate  love  he  called  the  Air, 

And  melting  softly  in  the  sunny  South, 
Twined  his  invisible  fingers  in  thy  hair, 

And,  stooping,  kissed  thee  with  his  odorous  mouth, 
And  chased  thee,  flying  through  thy  garden  shades, 
And  wooed,  as  men  are  wont  to  woo  the  maids, 
And  won  at  last,  and  then  flew  back  to  Heaven, 
Pleading  with  Jove,  till  his  consent  was  given, 
And  thou  wert  made  immortal,  —  happy  day ! 
The  goddess  of  the  flowers,  and  Queen  of  May  ! 

O,  what  a  rare  and  pleasant  life  is  thine, 
On  blue  Olympus,  'mid  the  gods  divine  !  — 
There  thou  hast  gardens,  and  a  range  of  bowers, 
And  beds  of  asphodel,  unfading  flowers, 
And  many  a  leafy  screen 
In  arbors  green, 


Where  thou  dost  lie,  and  dream  the  hours  away, 
Lulled  by  the  drowsy  sound 

Of  trees  around, 

And  springs  that  fall  in  basins  full  of  spray  ! 
Sweet  are  thy  duties  and  employments  there, 
In  those  bright  regions  of  serener  air  ; 
Sometimes  to  wreathe  imperial  Juno's  tresses, 

Braided  around  her  brow  like  beams  of  light ; 

Or  Cytherea's  with  bosom  bare  and  white, 
Melting  to  meet  Adonis's  caresses, 
When  he  lies  in  his  death-sleep,  stark  and  cold  ; 

And  oft  with  Hebe  and  with  Ganymede 

Stooping  in  dews,  —  a  task  by  Jove  decreed, — 
Entwining  chaplets  round  their  drinking-cups  of  gold  ; 
And  round  the  necks  of  Dian's  spotted  fawns, 
Like  strings  of  bells,  and  Leda's  linked  swans, 
That  float  and  sing  in  Heaven's  serenest  streams, 
Like  thoughts  in  poets'  dreams  !  — 
And  when  red  Mars,  victorious  from  the  field, 
Throws  down  his  glittering  spear  and  dinted  shield, 
And  doffs  his  plumed  helmet  by  his  side, 
To  bathe  his  burning  forehead  in  the  tide, 
Thou  dost  a-sly  with  flowery  fetters  bind  him, 

And  tie  his  arms  behind  him, 
Smoothing  with  playful  hands  his  furrowed  cheek, 
Until,  beguiled  and  meek, 


25 


He  kisses  thee,  and  laughs  with  joy  aloud  ! 
And  when  Minerva,  lost  in  Wisdom's  cloud, 
Muses  abstracted  in  profoundest  nooks, 
Thou  dost  unclasp  her  ponderous  tomes  and  books, 
And  press  the  leaves  of  flowers  within  their  leaves  ; 
And  thou  dost  bind  them  up  in  Ceres'  sheaves, 
And  wreathe  Apollo's  lyre,  and  Hermes'  rod, 
And,  venturing  near  the  cloud-compelling  God, 
Sitting  with  thought-concentred  brows  alone, 
Bestrew  the  starry  footstool  of  his  throne  ! 
And  sometimes  thou  dost  steal  to  Hades  dark  and  grim, 
The  shadowy  realm  of  spirits  weak  and  dim, 
And,  drowsing  gloomy  Pluto,  stern  and  pale, 

With  slumberous  poppies  plucked  in  Lethe's  bowers, 

Givest  to  Proserpine  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
Such  as  she  dropped  in  Enna's  bloomy  vale, 
That  solemn  morn  in  May 
When  she  was  stolen  away  ; 
And,  pressing  it  to  her  white  lips  in  fear, 
She  kisses  thee  for  that  remembrance  dear, 
And  then  ye  weep  together !  (softened  so, 

When  Cytherea  knelt  down,  and  plead  with  thee, 
And  Death  was  drugged,  she  let  Adonis  go  ; 

And  so  gave  Orpheus  Eurydice  !) 
But  ere  the  darkness  fades  thou  dost  upsoar, 
And  walk  the  Olympian  palaces  once  more  ; 


26 


And  when  young  Hesper  folds  the  morning  star, 

And  harnesses  the  winged  steeds  of  Day, 
And  flushed  Aurora  urges  on  her  car, 

Chasing  the  shadows  of  the  Night  away, 
Thou  dost  with  Zephyr  fly  in  pomp  behind, 
Shaking  thy  scarf  of  rainbows  on  the  wind  ; 
And  when  the  Orient  is  reached  at  last, 
Thou  dost  unbar  its  gate 

Of  golden  state, 

And  wait  till  she  and  all  her  train  have  passed, 
And  soar  again  far  up  the  dappled  blue, 
To  wet  the  laughing  Earth  with  fresher  dew 
As  now  thou  dost,  in  pomp  and  triumph  gay, 

This  happy,  happy  day, 
Thy  festival  of  joy,  divinest  Queen  of  May  ! 

O  Flora  !  heavenly  Flora,  hear  us  now, 

Gathered  to  worship  thee  in  shady  bowers  ; 

Accept  the  simple  gifts  and  tuneful  vow 

We  offer  thee,  that  thou  hast  spared  the  flowers  ; 

The  Spring  has  been  a  cold,  belated  one, 

Dark  clouds,  and  showers,  and  a  little  sun, 

And  in  the  nipping  mornings  hoary  frost ; 

We  hoped,  but  feared  the  tender  seeds  were  lost  ; 

But,  thanks  to  thee  !  they  soon  began  to  grow, 
Pushing  their  slender  shoots  above  the  ground , 


27 


In  cultured  gardens  trim  ;  and  some  were  found 
Beside  the  edges  of  the  banks  of  snow, 

Heedless,  and  gay,  and  bold, 
Like  children  laughing  o'er  a  father's  mould. 
The  sward  to-day  is  full,  and  teems  with  more  ; 
Earth  never  was  so  bounteous  before  : 
Here  are  red  roses  throwing  back  their  hoods, 

Like  willing  maids,  to  greet  the  kissing  wind  ; 
And  here  are  violets  from  sombre  woods, 

With  tears  6f  dew  within  their  lids  enshrined  ; 
Lilies  like  little  maids  in  bridal  white, 

Or  in  their  burial-garments,  if  you  will ; 

And  here  is  that  bold  flower,  the  daffodil, 
That  peers  i'  th'  front  of  March  ;  and  daisies  bright, 
The  vestals  of  the  morn,  that  love  its  breeze  ; 
Snowdrops  like  specks  of  foam  on  stormy  seas, 
And  yellow  buttercups  that  gem  the  fields, 
Like  studs  of  richest  gold  on  massive  shields  ; 
Anemones  that  sprang,  in  golden  years, 

(The  story  goes  they  were  not  seen  before,) 

Where  young  Adonis,  tusked  by  the  boar, 
Bled  life  away,  and  Venus  rained  her  tears  ; 
(Look  !  in  their  hearts,  a  small  ensanguined  spot !) 
Arid  here  is  pansy,  and  forget-me-not ; 
And  prim  Narcissus,  vain  and  foolish  elf, 
Enamored  (would  you  think  it  ? )  of  himself, 


'       28 

Looking  for  ever  in  the  brook,  his  glass ; 
And  drooping  Hyacinthus,  slain,  alas  ! 
By  rudest  Auster,  blowing  in  the  stead 

Of  Zephyr,  then  in  Love's  bright  meshes  bound  ; 

Pitching  with  bright  Apollo  in  his  ground, 
He  blew  the  discus  back,  and  struck  him  dead  ! 
Pied  wind-flowers,  oxlips,  and  the  jessamine  ; 
The  sleepy  poppy,  and  the  eglantine  ; 
Primroses,  Dian's  flowers  that  ope  at  night ; 

Also  that  little  sun  the  marigold, 
And  fringed  pinks,  and  water-lilies  white, 

Like  floating  naiads  from  the  rivers  cold  ; 
Carnations,  gilliflowers,  and  savory  rue, 
And  rosemary  that  loveth  tears  for  dew, 
With  other  nameless  flowers,  and  pleasant  weeds 
That  grow  untended  in  the  marshy  meads 
Where  flags  shoot  up,  and  ragged  grasses  wave 
Perennial,  when  Autumn  seeks  her  grave 
Among  the  withered  leaves,  and  breezes  blow, 
And  Winter  weaves  a  winding-sheet  of  snow  !  — 
Flowers  !  O,  what  loveliness  there  is  in  flowers ! 

What  food  for  thoughts  and  fancies  rich  and  new  ! 

What  shall  we  liken  or  compare  them  to, 

In  all  this  wrorld  of  ours  ? 
Jewels  and  rare  mosaics  scattered  o'er 
Creation's  palace-floor ; 


29 


Or  Beauty's  dials  marking  with  their  leaves 
The  pomp  and  flight  of  golden  morns  and  eves  ; 
Illuminate  missals  open  on  the  meads, 
Bending  with  rosaries  of  dewy  beads  ; 
Or  characters  inscribed  on  Nature's  scrolls  ; 

Or  sweet  thoughts  from  the  heart  of  Mother  Earth  ; 
Or  wind-rocked  cradles,  where  the  bees  in  rolls 

Of  odorous  leaves  are  wont  to  lie  in  mirth, 
Full-hearted,  murmuring  the  hours  away, 
Like  little  children  talking  at  their  play  ; 
Or  cups  and  beakers  of  the  butterflies 

Brimming  with  nectar ;  or  a  string  of  bells, 

Tolling,  unheard,  a  requiem  for  the  Hours  ; 
Or  censers  swinging  incense  to  the  skies ; 
Pavilions,  tents,  and  towers, 

The  little  fortresses  of  insect  powers 
Who  wind  their  horns  within ;  or  magic  cells 

Where  happy  fairies  dream  the  time  away, 

Night  elfins  slumbering  all  the  summer  day, 

Sweet  nurslings  thou  art  wont  to  feed  with  dew 

From  silver  urns,  replenished  in  the  blue  !  — 
But  this  is  idlesse  all,  —  away  !  away  ! 

White-handed  maids,  and  scatter  buds  around  ; 

And  let  the  lutes  awake,  and  tabors  sound, 
And  every  heart  its  just  devotion  pay. 
Once  more  we  thank  thee,  Flora !  and  once  more 


30 


Perform  our  rites  as  we  are  wont  to  do ; 

O,  smile  upon  us,  goddess  fair  and  true, 
And  watch  the  flowers  till  summer's  reign  is  o'er ; 
Preserve  the  seeds  we  sow  in  winter-time 
From  burrowing  moles,  and  blight,  and  icy  rime, 
And  in  their  season  cause  the  shoots  to  rise, 
And  make  the  dainty  buds  unseal  their  eyes ; 
And  we  will  pluck  the  rarest,  and  entwine 
Chaplets,  and  lay  them  on  thy  rural  shrine, 
And  sing  our  choral  hymns,  melodious,  sweet, 

And  dance  with  nimble  feet, 
And  worship  thee,  as  now,  serene  and  gay, 
The  joy  of  all  the  world,  the  merry  Queen  of  May  ! 
lo !  Triumphe ! 


31 


ODE. 

I. 

PALE  in  her  fading  bowers  the  Summer  stands, 
Like  a  new  Niobe  with  clasped  hands, 
Mute  o'er  the  faded  flowers,  her  children  lost, 
Slain  by  the  arrows  of  the  early  frost ! 
The  clouded  Heaven  above  is  pale  and  gray, 

The  misty  Earth  below  is  wan  and  drear, 
The  baying  Winds  chase  all  the  leaves  away, 

As  cruel  hounds  pursue  the  trembling  deer  ;  — 
It  is  a  solemn  time,  the  sunset  of  the  year  ! 

ii. 

My  heart  is  sick  and  sad,  for  I  have  toiled 
In  iron  poverty  and  hopeless  tears, 
Tugging  in  fetters  at  the  oar  for  years, 

And,  wrestling  in  the  ring  of  Life,  have  soiled 

My  robes  with  dust,  and  strained  my  sinews  sore  ; 

I  have  no  strength  to  struggle  any  more  ! 


And  what  if  I  should  perish  ?     None  would  miss 
An  idle  dreamer  in  a  world  like  this  ; 
Whate'er  our  beauty,  worth,  or  loving  powers, 

We  live,  we  strive,  we  die,  and  are  forgot; 
We  are  no  more  regarded  than  the  flowers, 

And  death  and  darkness  is  our  destined  lot ! 
One  bud  from  off  the  tree  of  Life  is  naught, 
One  fruit  from  off  the  ripening  bough  of  Thought ; 
The  hinds  will  ne'er  lament,  in  harvest-time, 
The  bud  or  fruit  that  fell  and  wasted  in  its  prime  ! 

in. 
Away  with  Action !  't  is  the  ban  of  Time, 

The  curse  that  clung  to  us  from  Eden's  gate ; 
We  toil,  and  strain,  and  tug  from  youth's  fair  prime, 

And  drag  a  chain  for  years,  a  weary  weight  ! 
Away  with  Action!  and  Laborious  Life, — 
It  was  not  made  for  man, 

In  Nature's  plan, 

For  man  was  made  for  quiet,  not  for  strife. 
The  pearl  is  shaped  serenely  in  its  shell 

In  the  still  waters  of  the  ocean  deep ; 
The  buried  seed  begins  to  pulp  and  swell 

In  Earth's  warm  bosom  in  profoundest  sleep, 
And,  sweeter  far  than  all,  the  bridal  rose 
Flushes  to  fulness  in  a  soft  repose. 


33 


Let  others  gather  honey  in  the  world, 

And  hoard  it  in  their  cells  until  they  die  ; 
I  am  content  in  dreaminess  to  lie, 
Sipping,  in  summer  hours, 
My  wants  from  fading  flowers, 
An  Epicurean  till  my  wings  are  furled  ! 

IV. 

What  happy  hours,  what  happy,  happy  days, 

Were  mine  when  I  was  young,  a  careless  boy, 

Oblivious  of  the  world,  —  its  woe  or  joy  ! 
I  lived  for  Song,  and  dreamed  of  budding  bays ! 
I  thought  when  I  was  dead,  if  not  before, 

(I  hoped  before,)  to  have  a  noble  name, 
To  leave  my  eager  footprints  on  the  shore, 

And  rear  my  statue  in  the  halls  of  Fame  ! 
I  pondered  o'er  the  Poets  dead  of  old, 

Their  memories  living  in  the  minds  of  men ; 
I  knew  they  were  but  men  of  mortal  mould, 

They  won  their  crowns,  and  I  might  win  again. 
I  drank  delicious  vintage  from  their  pages, 
Flasks  of  Parnassian  nectar,  stored  for  ages  ; 
My  soul  was  flushed  within  me,  maddened,  fired  ; 
I  leaped  impassioned,  like  a  seer  inspired  ; 
I  lived,  and  would  have  died,  for  Poesy, 

In  youth's  divine  emotion  : 
3 


34 


A  stream  that  sought  its  ocean, 

A  Time  that  longed  to  be 
Engulfed,  and  swallowed  in  its  calm  Eternity  ! 

•     v. 

0  Poesy !  my  spirit's  crowned  queen, 

1  would  that  thou  couldst  in  the  flesh  be  seen, 
The  shape  of  perfect  loveliness  thou  art, 
Enshrined  within  the  chambers  of  my  heart! 
I  would  build  thee  a  palace,  richer  far 

Than  princely  Aladeen's  renowned  of  old  ; 

With  walls  and  columns  all  of  massy  gold, 
And  every  gem  incrusting  it  a  star ! 
Thy  throne  a  pillar  of  sunset,  canopied 
With  purple  mists,  a  shielded  Moon  overhead ; 
Thy  coffers  should  o'erflow,  and  mock  the  Ind, 

Whose   boasted  wealth   would  dwindle   down   to 
naught ; 

The  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  streams  of  Thought, 
Washed  lucidly  from  cloven  peaks  of  Mind  ! 
And  I  would  bring  to  thee  the  daintiest  things 
That  grow  beneath  the  summer  of  thy  wings  ; 
Wine  from  the  Grecian  vineyards,  pressed  with  care, 
Brimming  in  cups  antique,  and  goblets  rare ; 
And  luscious  fruitage  of  enchanted  trees, 

From  magic  orchard  plots  with  charmed  gates ; 


And  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides, 

Stolen  by  Fancy  from  the  guardant  Fates  ; 
And  I  would  hang  around  thee  day  and  night, 

Nor  ever  heed,  or  know  the  night  from  day ; 
If  Time  had  wings,  I  should  not  see  his  flight, 

Or  feel  his  shadow  in  my  sunny  way ! 
Forgetful  of  the  world,  I  'd  stand  apart, 

And  gaze  on  thee  unseen,  and  touch  my  lute, 
A  perfect  type  and  image  of  my  heart, 

Whose  trembling  chords  will  never  more  be  mute  ; 
And  Joy  and  Grief,  would  mingle  in  my  theme, 
A  swan  and  shadow  floating  down  the  stream ! 
And  when  thou  didst  in  soft  disdain,  or  mirth, 
Descend  thy  throne  and  walk  the  common  earth, 
I  would,  in  brave  array,  precede  thee  round, 

With  pomp  and  pageantry,  and  music  sweet, 
And  spread  my  shining  mantle  on  the  ground, 
For  fear  the  dust  should  soil  thy  golden-sandalled  feet ! 

VI. 

Away  !  away  !  the  days  are  dim  and  cold  ; 
The  withered  flowers  are  crumbling  in  the  mould  ; 
The  Heaven  is  gray  and  blank,  the  Earth  is  drear, 
And  fallen  leaves  are  heaped  on  Summer's  bier ! 
Sweet  songs  are  out  of  place,  however  sweet, 
When  all  things  else  are  wrapt  in  funeral  gloom  ; 


True  Poets  never  pipe  to  dancing  feet, 
But  only  elegies  around  a  tomb ! 

Away  with  fancy  now  !  the  Year  demands 
A  sterner  chaplet,  and  a  deeper  lay  ; 

A  wreath  of  cypress  woven  with  pious  hands, 
A  dirge  for  its  decay  ! 


37 


LEONATUS. 

The  fair  loy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

It  was  his  duty  evermore 
To  tend  the  Lady  Imogen  ; 
By  peep  of  day  he  might  be  seen 

Tapping  against  her  chamber  door, 
To  wake  the  sleepy  waiting-maid  ; 
Who  rose,  and  when  she  had  arrayed 
The  Princess,  and  the  twain  had  prayed 

(With  pearl  &  d  rosaries  used  of  yore), 
They  called  him,  pacing  to  and  fro  ; 
And  cap  in  hand,  and  bowing  low, 
He  entered,  and  began  to  feed 
The  singing  birds  with  fruit  and  seed. 


The  brave  boy  Leonatns, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
He  tripped  along  the  kingly  hall, 

From  room  to  room,  with  messages ; 

He  stopped  the  butler,  clutched  his  keys, 
(Albeit  he  was  broad  and  tall,) 

And  dragged  him  down  the  vaults,  where  wine 

In  bins  lay  beaded  and  divine, 

To  pick  a  flask  of  vintage  fine  ; 
Came  up,  and  clomb  the  garden  wall, 

And  plucked  from  out  the  sunny  spots 

Peaches,  and  luscious  apricots, 

And  filled  his  golden  salver  there, 

And  hurried  to  his  Lady  fair. 

The  gallant  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
He  had  a  steed  from  Arab  ground, 

And  when  the  lords  and  ladies  gay 

Went  hawking  in  the  dews  of  May, 
And  hunting  in  the  country  round, 

And  Imogen  did  join  the  band, 

He  rode  him  like  a  hunter  grand, 

A  hooded  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
And  by  his  side  a  slender  hound  : 


39 


But  when  they  saw  the  deer  go  by 
He  slipped  the  leash,  and  let  him  fly, 
And  gave  his  fiery  barb  the  rein, 
And  scoured  beside  her  o'er  the  plain. 

The  strange  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

Sometimes  he  used  to  stand  for  hours 
Within  her  room,  behind  her  chair  ; 
The  soft  wind  blew  his  golden  hair 

Across  his  eyes,  and  bees  from  flowers 
Hummed  round  him,  but  he  did  not  stir  : 
He  fixed  his  earnest  eyes  on  her, 
A  pure  and  reverent  worshipper, 

A  dreamer  building  airy  towers : 
But  when  she  spoke  he  gave  a  start, 
That  sent  the  warm  blood  from  his  heart, 
To  flush  his  cheeks,  and  every  word 
The  fountain  of  his  feelings  stirred. 

The  sad  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
He  lost  all  relish  and  delight, 

For  all  things  that  did  please  before  ; 
By  day  he  wished  the  day  was  o'er, 
By  night  he  wished  the  same  of  night : 


40 


He  could  not  mingle  in  the  crowd, 
He  loved  to  be  alone,  and  shroud 
His  tender  thoughts,  and  sigh  aloud, 
And  cherish  in  his  heart  its  blight. 
At  last  his  health  began  to  fail, 
His  fresh  and  glowing  cheeks  to  pale  ; 
And  in  his  eyes  the  tears  unshed 
Did  hang  like  dew  in  violets  dead. 

The  timid  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
"  What  ails  the  boy  ?  "  said  Imogen  : 

He  stammered,  sighed,  and  answered  "  Naught." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  then  she  thought 
What  all  his  malady  could  mean  ; 

It  might  be  love ;  her  maid  was  fair, 

And  Leon  had  a  loving  air  ; 

She  watched  them  with  a  jealous  care, 
And  played  the  spy,  but  naught  was  seen  : 

And  then  she  was  aware  at  first, 

That  she,  not  knowing  it,  had  nursed 

His  memory  till  it  grew  a  part,  — 

A  heart  within  her  very  heart  ! 

The  dear  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 


41 


She  loved,  but  owned  it  not  as  yet ; 
When  he  was  absent  she  was  lone, 
She  felt  a  void  before  unknown, 

And  Leon  filled  it  when  they  met ; 
She  called  him  twenty  times  a  day, 
She  knew  not  why,  she  could  not  say  ; 
She  fretted  when  he  went  away, 

And  lived  in  sorrow  and  regret ; 

Sometimes  she  frowned  with  stately  mien, 
And  chid  him  like  a  little  queen ; 
And  then  she  soothed  him  meek  and  mild, 
And  grew  as  trustful  as  a  child. 

The  neat  scribe  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

She  wondered  that  he  did  not  speak, 
And  own  his  love,  if  love  indeed 
It  was  that  made  his  spirit  bleed  ; 

And  she  bethought  her  of  a  freak 
To  test  the  lad  ;  she  bade  him  write 
A  letter  that  a  maiden  might, 
A  billet  to  her  heart's  delight ; 

He  took  the  pen  with  fingers  weak, 
Unknowing  what  he  did,  and  wrote, 
And  folded  up,  and  sealed  the  note  : 
She  wrote  the  superscription  sage, 
"  For  Leonatus,  Lady's  Page  !  " 


42 


The  happy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  ; 
The  page  of  Imogen  no  more, 

But  now  her  love,  her  lord,  her  life, 
For  she  became  his  wedded  wife, 
As  both  had  hoped  and  dreamed  before. 
He  used  to  sit  beside  her  feet, 
And  read  romances  rare  and  sweet, 
And,  when  she  touched  her  lute,  repeat 
Impassioned  madrigals  of  yore, 
Uplooking  in  her  face  the  while, 
Until  she  stooped  with  loving  smile, 
And  pressed  her  melting  mouth  to  his, 
That  answered  in  a  dreamy  bliss,  — 
The  joyful  Leonatus, 
The  Lord  of  Imogen  ! 


43 


SPRING. 


THE  trumpet  winds  have  sounded  a  retreat, 
Blowing  o'er  land  and  sea  a  sullen  strain  ; 
Usurping  March,  defeated,  flies  again, 

And  lays  his  trophies  at  the  Winter's  feet ! 

And  lo  ! — where  April,  coming  in  his  turn, 
In  changeful  motleys,  half  of  light  and  shade, 
Leads  his  belated  charge,  a  delicate  maid, 
A  nymph  with  dripping  urn. 

Hail !  hail !  thrice  hail !  —  thou  fairest  child  of  Time, 
With  all  thy  retinue  of  laughing  Hours, 

Thou  paragon  from  some  diviner  clime, 
And  ministrant  of  its  benignest  Powers, 

Who  hath  not  caught  the  glancing  of  thy  wing, 

And  peeped  beneath  thy  mask,  delicious  Spring  ? 

Sometimes  we  see  thee  on  the  pleasant  morns 


44 


Of  lingering  March,  with  wreathed  crook  of  gold, 

Leading  the  Ram  from  out  his  starry  fold, 
A  leash  of  light  around  his  jagged  horns  ! 
Sometimes  in  April,  goading  up  the  skies 
The  Bull,  whose  neck  Apollo's  silvery  flies 
Settle  upon,  a  many-twinkling  swarm  ! 

And  when  May-days  are  warm, 

And  drawing  to  a  close, 

And  Flora  goes 

With  Zephyr  from  his  palace  in  the  west, 
Thou  dost  upsnatch  the  Twins  from  cradled  rest, 
And  strain  them  to  thy  breast, 

And  haste  to  meet  the  expectant,  bright  new-comer, 
The  opulent   Queen    of  Earth,   the    gay,   voluptuous 
Summer  ! 

Unmuffled  now,  shorn  of  thy  veil  of  showers, 
Thou  tripp'st  along  the  mead  with  shining  hair 
Blown  back,  and  scarf  out-fluttering  on  the  air, 

White-handed,  strewing  the  fresh  sward  with  flowers  ! 

The  green  hills  lift  their  foreheads  far  away  ; 
But  where  thy  pathway  runs  the  sod  is  pressed 

By  fleecy  lambs,  behind  the  budding  spray ; 

And  troops  of  butterflies  are  hovering  round, 

And  the  small  swallow  drops  upon  the  ground 
Beside  his  mate,  and  nest ! 


45 


A  little  month  ago,  the  sky  was  gray ; 

Snow  tents  were  pitched  along  the  mountain-side, 

Where  March  encamped  his  stormy  legions  wide, 
And  shook  his  standard  o'er  the  fields  of  Day  ! 
But  now  the  sky  is  blue,  the  snow  is  flown, 
And  every  mountain  is  an  emerald  throne, 
And  every  cloud  a  dais  fringed  with  light, 
And  all  below  is  beautiful  and  bright ! 
The  forest  waves  its  plumes,  —  the  hedges  1)low, — 

The  south  wind  scuds  along  the  meadowy  sea 
Thick-flecked  with  daisied  foam,  —  and  violets  grow 

Blue-eyed,  and  cowslips  star  the  bloomy  lea  ; 
The  skylark  floods  the  scene  with  pleasant  rhyme  ; 

The  ousel  twitters  in  the  swaying  pine  ; 
And  wild  bees  hum  about  the  beds  of  thyme, 

And  bend  the  clover-bells  and  eglantine  ; 
The  snake  casts  off  his  skin  in  mossy  nooks  ; 

The  long-eared  rabbits  near  their  burrows  play  ; 
The  dormouse  wakes  ;  and  see !  the  noisy  rooks 

Sly  foraging,  about  the  stacks  of  hay  ! 

What  sights  !  what  sounds  !  what  rustic  life  and  mirth  ! 
Housed  all  the  winter  long  from  bitter  cold, 
Huddling  in  chimney-corners,  young  and  old 

Come  forth  and  share  the  gladness  of  the  Earth. 


46 


The  ploughmen  whistle  as  the  furrows  trail 

Behind  their  glittering  shares,  a  billowy  row  ; 
The  milkmaid  sings  a  ditty  while  her  pail 

Grows  full  and  frothy  ;  and  the  cattle  low ; 
The  hounds  are  yelping  in  the  misty  wood, 

Starting  the  fox  :  the  jolly  huntsmen  cheer  ; 

And  winding  horns  delight  the  listening  ear, 
And  startle  Echo  in  her  solitude  ; 
The  teamster  drives  his  wagon  down  the  lane, 

Flattening  a  broader  rut  in  weeds  and  sand  ; 
The  angler  fishes  in  the  shady  pool ; 

And  loitering  down  the  road,  with  cap  in  hand, 
The  truant  chases  butterflies,  —  in  vain, 
Heedless  of  bells  that  call  the  village  lads  to  school ! 

Methinks  the  world  is  sweeter  than  of  yore, 

More  fresh  arid  fine,  and  more  exceeding  fair ; 
There  is  a  presence  never  felt  before,  — 

The  soul  of  inspiration  everywhere  ; 
Incarnate  Youth  in  every  idle  limb, 

My  vernal  days,  my  prime,  return  anew ; 
My  tranced  spirit  breathes  a  silent  hymn, 

My  heart  is  full  of  dew  ! 


47 


AUTUMN. 

DIVINEST  Autumn  !  who  may  sketch  thee  best, 

For  ever  changeful  o'er  the  changeful  globe  ? 
Who  guess  thy  certain  crown,  thy  favorite  crest, 

The  fashion  of  thy  many-colored  robe  ? 
Sometimes  we  see  thee  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

In  fading  woods  where  acorns  patter  fast, 
Dropping  to  feed  thy  tusky  boars  around, 

Crunching  among  the  leaves  the  ripened  mast ; 
Sometimes  at  work  where  ancient  granary-floors 

Are  open  wide,  a  thresher  stout  and  hale, 

Whitened  with  chaff  upwafted  from  thy  flail 
While  south  winds  sweep  along  the  dusty  floors ; 
And  sometimes  fast  asleep  at  noontide  hours, 

Pillowed  on  sheaves,  and  shaded  from  the  heat, 

With  Plenty  at  thy  feet, 
Braiding  a  coronet  of  oaten  straw  and  flowers  ! 


What  time,  emerging  from  a  low-hung  cloud, 

The  shining  chariot  of  the  Sun  was  driven 
Slope  to  its  goal,  and  Day  in  reverence  bowed 

His  burning  forehead  at  the  gate  of  Heaven ;  — 
Then  I  beheld  thy  presence  full  revealed, 
Slow  trudging  homeward  o'er  a  stubble-field  ; 
Around  thy  brow,  to  shade  it  from  the  west, 

A  wisp  of  straw  entwisted  in  a  crown ; 

A  golden  wheat-sheaf,  slipping  slowly  down, 
Hugged  tight  against  thy  waist,  and  on  thy  breast, 
Linked  to  a  belt,  an  earthen  flagon  swung ; 

And  o'er  thy  shoulder  flung, 
Tied  by  their  stems,  a  bundle  of  great  pears, 

Bell-shaped  and  streaky,  some  rich  orchard's  pride  ; 

A  heavy  bunch  of  grapes  on  either  side, 

Across  each  arm,  tugged  downward  by  the  load, 
Their  glossy  leaves  blown  off  by  wandering  airs  ; 

A  yellow-rinded  melon  in  thy  right, 

In  thy  left  hand  a  sickle  caught  the  light, 
Keen  as  the  moon  which  glowed 

Along  the  fields  of  night : 

One  moment  seen,  the  shadowy  masque  was  flown, 
And  I  was  left,  as  now,  to  meditate  alone. 

Hark  !  hark !  —  I  hear  the  reapers  in  a  row, 
Shouting  their  harvest  carols  blithe  and  loud, 


49 


Cutting  the  rustled  maize  whose  crests  are  bowed 
With  ears  o'ertasselled,  soon  to  be  laid  low ; 
Crooked  earthward  now,  the   orchards  droop   their 

boughs 

With  red-cheeked  fruits,  while  far  along  the  wall, 
Full  in  the  south,  ripe  plums  and  peaches  fall 
In  tufted  grass  where  laughing  lads  carouse  ; 
And  down  the  pastures,  where  the  horse  goes  round 
His  ring  of  tan,  beneath  the  mossy  shed, 

Old  cider-presses  work  with  creaky  din, 
Oozing  in  vats,  and  apples  heap  the  ground  ; 

And  hour  by  hour,  a  basket  on  his  head, 
Up-clambering  to  the  spout,  the  ploughman  pours  them  in ' 

Sweet-scented  winds  from  meadows  newly  mown 
Blow  eastward  now ;  and  now  for  many  a  day 
The  fields  will  be  alive  with  wains  of  hay, 

And  stacks  not  all  unmeet  for  Autumn's  throne  ! 

The  granges  will  be  crowded,  and  the  men 
Half-smothered,  as  they  tread  it  from  the  top  ; 

And  then  the  wains  will  go,  and  come  again, 
And  go  and  come  until  they  end  the  crop. 

And  where  the  melons  stud  the  garden  vine, 
Crook-necked  or  globy,  smaller  carts  will  wait, 
Soon  to  be  urged  overloaded  to  the  gate 

Where  apples  drying  on  the  stages  shine  ; 
4 


50 


And  children  soon  will  go  at  eve  and  morn 

And  set  their  snares  for  quails  with  baits  of  corn ; 

And  when  the  house-dog  snuffs  a  distant  hare, 

O'errun  the  gorgeous  woods  with  noisy  glee  ; 

And  when  the  walnuts  ripen,  climb  a  tree, 

And  shake  the  branches  bare  ! 
And  by  and  by,  when  northern  winds  are  out, 

Great  fires  will  roar  in  chimneys  huge  at  night, 
While  chairs  draw  round,  and  pleasant  tales  are  told  : 
And  nuts  and  apples  will  be  passed  about, 

Until  the  household,  drowsy  with  delight, 
Creep  off  to  bed  a-cold  ! 

Sovereign  of  Seasons  !  Monarch  of  the  Earth  ! 

Steward  of  bounteous  Nature,  whose  rich  alms 

Are  showered  upon  us  from  thy  liberal  palms, 
Until  our  spirits  overflow  with  mirth  ! 
Divinest  Autumn !  while  our  garners  burst 

With  plenteous  harvesting,  an  heaped  increase, 
We  lift  our  eyes  to  thee  through  grateful  tears. 
World-wide  in  boons,  vouchsafe  to  visit  first, 

And  linger  last  along  our  realm  of  Peace, 
Where  Freedom  calmly  sits,  and  beckons  on  the  Years  ! 


51 


THE  WITCH'S   WHELP. 

ALONG  the  shore  the  slimy  brine-pils  yawn, 
Covered  with  thick  green  scum  ;  the  billows  rise, 
And  fill  them  to  the  brim  with  clouded  foam, 
And  then  subside,  and  leave  the  scum  again. 
The  ribbed  sand  is  full  of  hollow  gulfs, 
Where  monsters  from  the  waters  come  and  lie  ; 
Great  serpents  bask  at  noon  along  the  rocks,  — 
To  me  no  terror ;  coil  on  coil  they  roll 
Back  to  their  holes,  before  my  flying  feet ; 
The  Dragon  of  the  Sea,  my  mother's  god, 
Enormous  Setebos,  comes  here  to  sleep  ; 
Him  I  molest  not ;  when  he  flaps  his  wing 
A  whirlwind  rises,  when  he  swims  the  deep 
It  threatens  to  engulf  the  trembling  isle. 

Sometimes,  when  winds  do  blow,  and  clouds  are  dark, 
I  seek  the  blasted  wood,  whose  barkless  trunks 


Are  bleached  with  summer  suns  ;  the  creaking  trees 
Stoop  down  to  me,  and  swing  me  right  and  left, 
Through  crashing  limbs,  but  not  a  jot  care  I : 
The  thunder  breaks  o'erhead,  and  in  their  lairs 
The  panthers  roar ;  from  out  the  stormy  clouds 
With  hearts  of  fire,  sharp  lightnings  rain  around 
And  split  the  oaks  ;  not  faster  lizards  run 
Before  the  snake  up  the  slant  trunks  than  I; 
Not  faster  down,  sliding  with  hands  and  feet. 
I  stamp  upon  the  ground,  and  adders  rouse 
Sharp-eyed,  with  poisonous  fangs ;  beneath  the  leaves 
They  couch,  or  under  rocks,  and  roots  of  trees 
Felled  by  the  winds  ;  through  briery  undergrowth 
They  slide  with  hissing  tongues,  beneath  my  feet 
To  writhe,  or  in  my  fingers  squeezed  to  death. 

There  is  a  wild  and  solitary  pine, 
Deep  in  the  meadows ;  all  the  island  birds 
From  far  and  near  fly  there,  and  learn  new  songs ; 
Something  imprisoned  in  its  wrinkled  bark 
Wails  for  its  freedom  ;  when  the  bigger  light 
Burns  in  mid-heaven,  and  dew  elsewhere  is  dried, 
There  it  still  falls ;  the  quivering  leaves  are  tongues, 
And  load  the  air  with  syllables  of  woe. 
One  day  I  thrust  my  spear  within  a  cleft 
No  wider  than  its  point,  and  something  shrieked, 
And  falling  cones  did  pelt  me  sharp  as  hail : 


53 


I  picked  the  seeds  that  grew  between  their  plates, 
And  strung  them  round  ray  neck,  with  sea-mew  eggs. 

Hard  by  are  swamps  and  marshes,  reedy  fens 
Knee-deep  in  water  ;  monsters  wade  therein 
Thick-set  with  plated  scales  ;  sometimes  in  troops 
They  crawl  on  slippery  banks  ;   sometimes  they  lash 
The  sluggish  waves,  among  themselves  at  war  ; 
Often  1  heave  great  rocks  from  off  the  crags, 
And  crush  their  bones  ;  often  I  push  my  spear 
Deep  in  their  drowsy  eyes,  at  which  they  howl 
And  chase  me  inland  ;  then  I  mount  their  humps 
And  prick  them  back  again,  unwieldy,  slow  : 
At  night  the  wolves  are  howling  round  the  place, 
And  bats  sail  there  athwart  the  silver  light, 
Flapping  their  wings  ;  by  day  in  hollow  trees 
They  hide,  and  slink  into  the  gloom  of  dens. 

We  live,  my  mother  Sycorax  and  I, 
In  caves  with  bloated  toads  and  crested  snakes  ; 
She  can  make  charms,  and  philters,  and  brew  storms, 
And  call  the  great  Sea  Dragon  from  his  deeps  : 
Nothing  of  this  know  I,  nor  care  to  know  ; 
Give  me  the  milk  of  goats  in  gourds  or  shells, 
The  flesh  of  birds  and  fish,  berries,  and  fruit, 
Nor  want  I  more,  save  all  day  long  to  lie, 
And  hear,  as  now,  the  voices  of  the  sea. 


54 


HYMN   TO   THE   BEAUTIFUL. 

MY  heart  is  full  of  tenderness  and  tears, 

And  tears  are  in  mine  eyes,  I  know  not  why  ; 
With  all  my  grief  content  to  live  for  years,  — 

Or  even  this  hour  to  die. 
My  youth  is  gone,  but  that  I  heed  not  now  ; 

My  love  is  dead,  or  worse  than  dead  can  be  ; 
My  friends  drop  off  like  blossoms  from  a  bough,  — 

But  nothing  troubles  me, 
Only  the  golden  flush  of  sunset  lies 
Within  my  heart  like  fire,  like  dew  within  my  eyes  ! 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 
I  see  thy  skirts  afar,  and  feel  thy  power  ; 
It  is  thy  presence  fills  this  charmed  hour, 
And  fills  my  charmed  heart ;  — 


55 


Nor  mine  alone,  but  myriads  feel  thee  now, 
That  know  not  what  they  feel,  nor  why  they  bow ; 

Thou  canst  not  be  forgot, 
For  all  men  worship  thee,  and  know  it  not ; 
Nor  men  alone,  but  babes  with  wondrous  eyes, 
New-comers  on  the  Earth,  and  strangers  from  the  skies  ! 

We  hold  the  keys  of  Heaven  within  our  hands, 
The  gift  and  heirloom  of  a  former  state, 
And  lie  in  infancy  at  Heaven's  gate, 

Transfigured  in  the  light  that  streams  along  the  lands ! 

Around  our  pillows  golden  ladders  rise, 
And  up  and  down  the  skies, 
With  winged  sandals  shod, 

The  angels  come,  and  go,  the  Messengers  of  God ! 

Nor  do  they,  fading  from  us,  e'er  depart, — 
It  is  the  childish  heart ; 
We  walk  as  heretofore, 

Adown  their  shining  ranks,  but  see  them  —  never 
more  ! 

Not  Heaven  is  gone,  but  we  are  blind  with  tears, 
Groping  our  way  along  the  downward  slope  of  Years  ! 

From  earliest  infancy  my  heart  was  thine  ; 

With  childish  feet  I  trod  thy  temple  aisles ; 

Not  knowing  tears,  I  worshipped  thee  with  smiles, 
Or  if  I  ever  wept,  it  was  with  joy  divine  ! 


56 


By  day,  and  night,  on  land,  and  sea,  and  air,  — 

I  saw  thee  everywhere  ! 
A  voice  of  greeting  from  the  wind  was  sent ; 

The  mists  enfolded  me  with  soft  white  arms  ; 
The  birds  did  sing  to  lap  me  in  content, 
The  rivers  wove  their  charms,  — 
And  every  little  daisy  in  the  grass 
Did  look  up  in  my  face,  and  smile  to  see  me  pass  ! 

Not  long  can  Nature  satisfy  the  mind, 

Nor  outward  fancies  feed  its  inner  flame  ; 

We  feel  a  growing  want  we  cannot  name, 
And  long  for  something  sweet,  but  undefined  : 
The  wants  of  Beauty  other  wants  create, 
Which  overflow  on  others,  soon  or  late  ; 
For  all  that  worship  thee  must  ease  the  heart, 

By  Love,  or  Song,  or  Art : 
Divinest  Melancholy  walks  with  thee, 

Her  thin  wrhite  cheek  for  ever  leaned  on  thine  ; 
And  Music  leads  her  sister  Poesy, 

In  exultation  shouting  songs  divine  ! 
But  on  thy  breast  Love  lies,  —  immortal  child  !  — 
Begot  of  thine  own  longings,  deep  and  wild  ; 
The  more  we  worship  him,  the  more  we  grow 
Into  thy  perfect  image  here  below  ; 
For  here  below,  as  in  the  spheres  above, 
All  Love  is  Beauty,  and  all  Beauty,  Love  ! 


57 


Not  from  the  things  around  us  do  we  draw 

Thy  light  within  ;  within  the  light  is  born  ; 

The  growing  rays  of  some  forgotten  morn, 
And  added  canons  of  eternal  law. 
The  painter's  picture,  the  rapt  poet's  song, 

The  sculptor's  statue,  never  saw  the  Day  ; 

Not  shaped  and  moulded  after  aught  of  clay, 
Whose  crowning  work  still  does  its  spirit  wrong  ; 
Hue  after  hue  divinest  pictures  grow, 

Line  after  line  immortal  songs  arise, 
And  limb  by  limb,  out-starting  stern  and  slow, 

The  statue  wakes  with  wonder  in  its  eyes  ! 
And  in  the  master's  mind 

Sound  after  sound  is  born,  and  dies  like  wind, 

That  echoes  through  a  range  of  ocean  caves, 
And  straight  is  gone  to  weave  its  spell  upon  the  waves  ! 

The  mystery  is  thine, 

For  thine  the  more  mysterious  human  heart, 
The  Temple  of  all  Wisdom,  Beauty's  Shrine, 
The  Oracle  of  Art ! 

Earth  is  thine  outer  court,  and  Life  a  breath  ; 

Why  should  we  fear  to  die,  and  leave  the  Earth  ? 

Not  thine  alone  the  lesser  key  of  Birth,  — 

But  all  the  keys  of  Death  ; 
And  all  the  worlds,  with  all  that  they  contain 


58 


Of  Life,  and  Death,  and  Time,  are  thine  alone  ; 
The  Universe  is  girdled  with  a  chain, 

And  hung  below  the  Throne 
Where  Thou  dost  sit,  the  Universe  to  bless,  — 
Thou  sovereign  Smile  of  God,  Eternal  Loveliness  ! 


59 


TO   A    CELEBRATED   SINGER. 

OFT  have  I  dreamed  of  music  rare  and  fine, 
The  wedded  melody  of  lute  and  voice, 
Divinest  strains  that  made  my  soul  rejoice, 
And  woke  its  inner  harmonies  divine. 
And  where  Sicilia  smooths  the  ruffled  seas, 
And  Enna  hollows  all  its  purple  vales, 
Thrice  have  I  heard  the  noble  nightingales, 
All  night  entranced  beneath  the  bloomy  trees ; 
But  music,  nightingales,  and  all  that  Thought 

Conceives  of  song  are  naught 

To  thy  rich  voice,  which  echoes  in  my  brain, 

And  fills  my  longing  heart  with  a  melodious  pain  ! 

A  thousand  lamps  were  lit,  —  I  saw  them  not, 
Nor  all  the  thousands  round  me  like  a  sea ; 
Life,  Death,  and  Time,  and  all  things  were  forgot ; 


60 


I  only  thought  of  thee  ! 
Meanwhile  the  music  rose  sublime  and  strong. 

o" 

But  sunk  beneath  thy  voice,  which  rose  alone, 
Above  its  crumbled  fragments  to  thy  throne, 

Above  the  clouds  of  Song. 
Henceforth  let  Music  seal  her  lips,  and  be 
The  silent  ministrant  of  Poesy  ; 
For  not  the  delicate  reed  that  Pan  did  play 
To  partial  Midas,  at  the  match  of  old, 
Nor  yet  Apollo's  lyre  with  chords  of  gold, 
That  more  than  won  the  crown  he  lost  that  day ; 
Nor  even  the  Orphean  lute,  that  half  set  free  — 
O,  why  not  all  ?  —  the  lost  Eurydice, — 

Were  fit  to  join  with  thee  ; 
Much  less  our  instruments  of  meaner  sound, 
That  track  thee  slowly  o'er  enchanted  ground, 
Unfit  to  lift  the  train  thy  music  leaves, 
Or  glean  around  its  sheaves  ! 

I  strive  to  disentangle  in  my  mind 

Thy  many  knotted  threads  of  softest  song, 
Whose  memory  haunts  me  like  a  voiceless  wind, 

Whose  silence  does  it  wrong. 
No  single  tone  thereof,  no  perfect  sound, 

Lingers,  but  dim  remembrance  of  the  whole  ; 
A  sound  which  was  a  Soul, 


61 


The  Soul  of  sound  diffused,  an  atmosphere  around, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  mellow,  rich,  and  deep ! 
So  like  a  heavenly  soul's  ambrosial  breath, 
It  would  not  wake,  but  only  deepen  Sleep 

Into  diviner  Death ! 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  jealous  flute, 

Whose  soft,  sweet  voice  grew  harsh  before  its  own, 
It  stole  in  mockery  its  every  tone, 

And  left  it  lone  and  mute  ; 
It  flowed  like  liquid  pearl  through  golden  cells, 
It  jangled  like  a  string  of  golden  bells, 
It-  trembled  like  a  wind  in  golden  strings, 
It  dropped  and  rolled  away  in  golden  rings  ; 
Then  it  divided  and  became  a  shout, 
That  Echo  chased  about, 
However  wild  and  fleet, 
Until  it  trod  upon  its  heels  with  flying  feet ! 
At  last  it  sank  and  sank  from  deep  to  deep, 
Below  the  thinnest  word, 
And  sank  till  naught  was  heard, 
But  charmed  Silence  sighing  in  its  sleep  ! 

Powerless  and  mute  beneath  thy  mighty  spell, 

My  heart  was  lost  within  itself  and  thee, 
As  when  a  pearl  is  melted  in  its  shell, 
And  sunken  in  the  sea  ! 


I  sank  and  sank  beneath  thy  song,  but  still 
I  thirsted  after  more,  the  more  I  sank  ; 
A  flower  that  drooped  with  all  the  dew  it  drank, 
But  still  upheld  its  cup  for  Heaven  to  fill. 
My  inmost  soul  was  drunk  with  melody, 
Which  thou  didst  pour  around, 
To  crown  the  feast  of  sound, 
And  lift  to  every  lip,  but  chief  to  me, 

Whose  spirit,  uncontrolled, 
Drained  all  the  fiery  wine,  and  clutched  its  cup  of  gold  ! 

O  Queen  of  Song  !  as  peerless  as  thou  art, 

As  worthy  as  thou  art  to  wear  thy  crown, 

Thou  hast  a  deeper  claim  to  thy  renown, 
And  a  diviner  music  in  thy  heart ; 
Simplicity  and  Goodness  walk  with  thee, 

Beneath  the  wrings  of  watchful  Seraphim  : 
And  Love  is  wed  to  whitest  Chastity, 

And  Pity  sings  its  hymn. 
Nor  is  thy  virtue  passive  in  its  end, 

But  ever  active  as  the  sun  and  rain  : 

Unselfish,  lavish  of  its  golden  gain, 
Not  only  Want's,  but  a  whole  nation's  Friend  ! 
This  is  thy  glory,  this  thy  noblest  fame  ; 

And  when  thy  glory  fades,  and  fame  departs, 
This  will  perpetuate  a  deathless  name 

Where  names  are  deathless,  —  deep  in  loving  hearts ! 


63 


THE  TWO  GATES. 

THERE  are  two  starry  gates,  like  Morn  and  Even, 
Flung  back  along  the  thresholds  of  a  plain, 

Where  Earth  looks  out  upon  the  watchful  Heaven, 
And  Heaven  looks  in  upon  the  Earth  again. 

One  lifts  its  pillars  from  a  sea  of  flowers, 
And  pours  along  the  lands  a  flood  of  light : 

The  other  wraps  in  clouds  its  iron  towers, 
While  half  the  world  around  is  lost  in  Night. 

White-robed  and  innocent,  in  linked  bands 

Young  children  crowd  the  first,  with  dreamy  eyes, 

And  pluck  the  lilies  there  with  eager  hands, 
The  sole  surviving  blooms  of  Paradise. 

Youth  leads  them  down  the  path,  but  soon  departs  : 
And  Manhood  beckons  to  its  stern  estate  ; 

Save  when  the  angels  fold  them  to  their  hearts, 
And  bear  them  swiftly  through  the  iron  gate. 


64 


Some  urge  their  chariots  to  the  distant  goals  ; 
Some  wallow  in  the  mire  of  sensual  things  ; 

D       ' 

And  some  preserve  the  whiteness  of  their  souls, 
And  walk  beneath  theshade  of  angels'  wings. 

The  monarch  feasts  in  purple  robe  and  crown  ; 

The  ragged  beggar  starves  for  want  of  bread  ; 
And  laurelled  conquerors  reap  their  red  renown, 

While  widows  weep,  and  orphans  wail  the  dead. 

But  all  in  turn  are  borne  across  the  plain, 
Or  swift  or  slow,  by  some  resistless  fate, 

With  which  they  strive  from  year  to  year  —  in  vain, 
Impelled  for  ever  towards  the  shadowy  gate. 

Some  in  their  youth,  while  Hope  still  waves  her  torch, 
And  some  in  age,  when  locks  are  thin  and  white, 

Groping  their  way  along  the  cloudy  porch, 
Until  they  vanish  in  the  yawning  night. 

All  vanish  there,  and  are  replaced  again 

By  myriads  more,  that  tread  the  paths  they  trod  ; 

And  God  looks  down  upon  that  host  of  men, 
But  few  of  all  the  host  look  up  again  to  God  ! 


65 


THE   BROKEN  GOBLET. 

ONE  day  some  shepherds  found  a  Faun  asleep, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  a  shady  oak : 
Said  one,  "  What  say  you  ?  let  us  bind  him  here, 
And  he  shall  sing  before  we  let  him  go. 
They  say  these  creatures  are  poetical ; 
But  who  would  guess  it  from  their  looks  and  life  ?  " 
They  bound  him  to  the  tree  with  withered  vines, 
And  pelted  him  with  acorns,  till  he  woke. 
And  "  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  said,  and  "  What  is  this  ? 
This  oak  is  not  the  one  before  my  cave, 
Nor  were  these  vines  around  me,  till  1  slept. 
But  where  is  now  my  goblet  ?      Can  it  be  — 
'T  is  shivered  yonder  !  —  Gods  !  it  is  too  much  ! 
Who  has  been  fooling  with  me  ?     Ah  !  't  is  you, 
Hidden  behind  yon  tuft  of  birchen  spray. 
I  see  your  crook,  my  quaint  Arcadian, 
5 


66 


And  you,  my  lad,  perched  on  yon  swinging  limb. 

Cease  pelting  me,  —  you  hurt  me  !    Let  me  loose  ! 

Undo  these  viny  fetters  if  you  please." 

"  But  no,"  said  they, "  we  do  not  please  at  all ; 

Sing  us  a  song,  and  we  will  let  you  go." 

"  What  shall  I  sing  about,  mischievous  boys  ?  — 

My  theme  shall  be  the  Broken  Goblet  now, 

But  mind,  you  must  not  ask  too  much  of  me  ; 

With  this  misfortune  fresh  upon  my  heart, 

I  cannot  sing  as  I  was  wont  to  do." 

They  sat  beside  him,  and  the  Faun  began  : 

i. 

MY  goblet  was  exceeding  beautiful. 
It  was  the  jewel  of  my  cave  ;  I  had 
A  corner  where  I  hid  it  in  the  moss, 
Between  the  jagged  crevices  of  rock,  • 

Where  no  one  but  myself  could  find  it  out ; 
But  when  a  nymph  or  wood-god  passed  my  door, 
I  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  bravest  wine, 
And  offered  them  a  draught,  and  told  them  all 
That  Jove  had  nothing  richer  at  his  feasts, 
Though  Ganymede  and  Hebe  did  their  best  : 
His  nectar  is  not  richer  than  my  wine, 
Said  I,  and  for  the  cup,  — it  speaks  itself!  — 
But  I  have  broken  my  divinest  cup, 
And  trod  its  fragments  in  the  dust  of  Earth  ! 


67 


n. 

My  goblet  was  exceeding  beautiful. 
Sometimes  my  shaggy  brothers  of  the  wood 
Held  gay  carousals  with  me  in  my  cave  ; 
I  had  a  skin  of  Chian  wine  therein, 
Of  which  I  made  a  feast ;  and  all  who  drank 
From  out  my  dainty  cup,  a  feast  itself, 
Made  songs  about  the  bright,  immortal  shapes 
Engraven  on  the  side  below  their  lips  : 
But  we  shall  never  drain  it  any  more, 
And  never  sing  about  it  any  more  ; 
For  I  have  broken  my  divinest  cup, 
And  trod  its  fragments  in  the  dust  of  Earth  ! 

in. 

My  goblet  was  exceeding  beautiful. 
For  Pan  was  graved  upon  it,  rural  Pan  ; 
He  sat  at  noon  within  a  shady  bower 
Piping,  with  all  his  listening  herd  around  ; 
(I  thought  at  times  I  saw  his  fingers  move, 
And  heard  his  music  :  did  I  dream  or  not  ?) 
Hard  by  the  Satyrs  danced,  and  Dryads  peeped 
From  out  the  mossy  trunks  of  ancient  trees  ; 
And  nice-eared  Echo  mocked  him  till  he  thought 
The  simple  god  !  —  he  heard  another  Pan 
Playing,  and  wonder  shone  in  his  large  eyes  • 


68 


But  I  have  broken  my  divinest  cup, 

And  trod  its  fragments  in  the  dust  of  Earth  ! 

IV. 

My  goblet  was  exceeding  beautiful. 

For  Jove  was  there  transformed  into  the  Bull 

Bearing  forlorn  Europa  through  the  waves, 

Leaving  behind  a  track  of  ruffled  foam  ; 

Powerless  with  fear  she  held  him  by  the  horns, 

Her  golden  tresses  streaming  on  the  winds ; 

And  Cupids  sported  near  in  rocking  shells, 

And  sea-gods  glanced  from  out  their  weedy  caves, 

And  on  the  shore  were  maids  with  waving  scarfs, 

And  hinds  a-coming  to  the  rescue  —  late  ! 

But  I  have  broken  my  divinest  cup, 

And  trod  its  fragments  in  the  dust  of  Earth ! 

v. 

My  goblet  was  exceeding  beautiful. 
For  rosy  Bacchus  crowned  its  rich  designs  : 
He  sat  within  a  vineyard  full  of  grapes, 
With  Ariadne  kneeling  at  his  side  ; 
His  arm  was  thrown  around  her  slender  waist, 
His  head  lay  in  her  bosom,  and  she  held 
A  cup  a  little  distance  from  his  lips, 
And  teased  him  with  it,  for  he  wanted  it. 


69 


A  pair  of  spotted  pards  were  sleeping  near, 

Couchant  in  shade,  their  heads  upon  their  paws  ; 

And  revellers  were  dancing  in  the  woods, 

Snapping  their  jolly  fingers  evermore  ! 

But  all  is  vanished,  lost,  for  ever  lost, 

For  I  have  broken  my  divinest  cup, 

And  trod  its  fragments  in  the  dust  of  Earth  ! 


70 


ARCADIAN  IDYL. 

WALKING  at  dew-fall  yester-eve,  I  met 

The  shepherd  Lycidas  adown  the  vale. 

u  What  ho  !  my  piping  wonder  !  "  I  exclaimed, 

Seeing  his  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground, 

Counting  the  pebbles,  lost  it  seemed  in  thought ; 

"  What  cheer,  dear  Lycid  !  why  are  you  so  wrapt  ? 

Has  Galatea,  white-handed  maid,  been  false  ? 

Or  have  the  Muses  quite  forsaken  you  ?  " 

"  O,  no !  Theocritus,"  he  said  with  smiles, 

"  White-handed  Galatea  has  not  been  false, 

Nor  have  the  Muses  yet  forsaken  me. 

You  know,  my  friend,  the  man  I  love  so  much, 

The  Spartan  Poet,  brave  and  beautiful ;  — 

I  have  been  sketching  out  a  simple  song, 

About  his  style  of  singing,  and  mine  own." 

"  O,  let  me  hear  it ! "  I  replied  with  glee, 

"  Fresh  from  your  brain,  with  all  its  fire  and  faults ; 


71 


There  's  nothing  like  a  poet's  first  rude  draft ; 
Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  said  I.    And  he  began. 

44  Great  is  Apollo  with  his  golden  shell, 
The  gift  of  Hermes  in  his  infancy ; 
And  great  is  Hermes'  self,  light-fingered  god  : 
But  greater  far  than  both,  illustrious  Pan, 
Divinest  Pan,  who  taught  the  shepherd  swains 
In  Thessaly  the  wonder  of  his  pipe.  — 
Hear  me,  great  Pan!     O,  let  thy  spirit  breathe 
From  out  these  oaten  stops,  and  I  will  pile 
Three  square  stones,  altar-wise,  and  offer  up 
A  lamb  to  thee,  the  firstling  of  my  flock  ! 

We  love  in  others  what  we  lack  ourselves, 

And  would  be  every  thing  but  what  we  are. 

The  vine  uplifts  its  trailing  parasites, 

And  clasps  the  great  arms  of  the  stooping  oak, 

Till  both  are  wedded  with  a  thousand  rings ! 

I  have  a  friend  as  different  from  myself, 

As  Hercules  from  Hylas,  his  delight. 

True  Poets  are  we  both,  but  he  the  best : 

His  songs  are  full  of  nobleness  and  power, 

Magnificent  as  storms  on  Caucasus, 

Or  the  deep  runes  the  solemn  Ocean  chants 

White-haired  in  echoing  caverns ;  mine  are  low 


As  Spring's  first  airs,  and  delicate  as  buds. 

He  loves  the  rugged  mountains,  stern  and  wild, 

Lifting  their  summits  in  the  blank  of  dawn 

Crested  with  surging  pines ;  and  the  gray  seas 

That  urge  their  heavy  waves  on  rocky  crags ; 

And  the  unmeasured  vastness  of  the  sky, 

With  all  its  stars,  intense,  and  white,  and  cold : 

But  I  am  soft  and  gentle  as  a  fawn 

That  licks  the  hand  that  feeds  it ;  or  the  dove 

That  nestles  in  the  breast  of  Cytherea !  — 

I  love  the  haunt  of  wood-nymphs,  and  the  mists 

Where  Oreads  shroud  their  thin  divinity  ; 

The  lawns,  and  meadows,  and  the  pasture-lands 

Sprinkled  with  daisies,  and  all  quiet  spots. 

My  heart  is  full  of  sweetness,  like  a  rose  ; 

And  delicate  melodies  like  vernal  bees 

Hum  to  themselves  within  its  folded  leaves, 

So  deep  in  honey  that  they  cannot  stir ! 

I  would  be  Pleasure's  Poet  till  I  died, 

And  die  at  last  upon  her  burning  heart ; 

But  he,  selected  for  his  majesty, 

To  Wisdom  turns,  and  worships  her  afar, 

Awed  by  her  calm,  large  eyes,  and  spacious  brow  : 

And  yet  in  sooth  his  heart  is  soft  enough, 

With  all  its  strength,  enthroned  in  loveliness 

Like  Etna  looming  from  its  base  of  flowers  ; 


73 


And  he  will  wed  his  love  ere  Summer  dies, 

While  I  must  live  a  pensive  bachelor ; 

A  state  I  am  not  fond  of,  —  no,  by  Jove ! 

But  never  mind  it ;  I  will  still  sing  on, 

And  be  the  ablest  nightingale  I  can, 

And  he  may  be  the  eagle  if  he  will ; 

I  cannot  follow  him,  I  know  right  well, — 

None  half  so  well,  —  but  I  will  watch  his  flight 

And  love  him,  though  he  leave  me  for  the  stars!" 

Thus  sang  the  shepherd  Lycidas  to  me, 
And  when  the  sickle  of  the  Moon  was  drawn 
From  out  its  sheaf  of  clouds,  and  Hesper  lit 
His  harvest  torch,  we  parted  for  the  night. 


74 


THE    SOUTH. 

FALL  !  thickly  fall !  thou  winter  snow  ! 
And  keenly  blow,  thou  winter  wind  ! 
Only  the  barren  North  is  yours  ; 

The  South  delights  a  summer  mind  ; 
So  fall  and  blow, 
Both  wind  and  snow, 
My  Fancy  to  the  South  doth  go ! 

Half-way  between  the  frozen  zones, 

Where  Winter  reigns  in  sullen  mirth, 
The  Summer  binds  a  golden  belt 
About  the  middle  of  the  Earth. 
The  sky  is  soft,  and  blue,  and  bright 
With  purple  dyes  at  morn  and  night ; 
And  bright  and  blue  the  seas  which  lie 
In  perfect  rest,  and  glass  the  sky ; 


75 


And  sunny  bays  with  inland  curves 

Round  all  along  the  quiet  shore ; 
And  stately  palms  in  pillared  ranks 
Grow  down  the  borders  of  the  banks, 

And  juts  of  land  where  billows  roar  ; 
The  spicy  woods  are  full  of  birds, 

And  golden  fruits,  and  crimson  flowers  ; 
With  wreathed  vines  on  every  bough, 

That  shed  their  grapes  in  purple  showers  ; 
The  emerald  meadows  roll  their  waves, 

And  bask  in  soft  and  mellow  light ; 
The  vales  are  full  of  silver  mist, 

And  all  the  folded  hills  are  bright ; 
But  far  along  the  welkin's  rim 
The  purple  crags  and  peaks  are  dim  ; 
And  dim  the  gulfs,  and  gorges  blue, 

With  all  the  wooded  passes  deep ; 
All  steeped  in  haze,  and  washed  in  dew, 

And  bathed  in  atmospheres  of  Sleep ! 

Sometimes  the  dusky  islanders 

Lie  all  day  long  beneath  the  trees, 

And  watch  the  white  clouds  in  the  sky, 
And  birds  upon  the  azure  seas  ; 

Sometimes  they  wrestle  on  the  turf, 
And  chase  each  other  down  the  sands ; 


76 


And  sometimes  climb  the  bloomy  groves, 

And  pluck  the  fruit  with  idle  hands  ; 
And  dark-eyed  maidens  braid  their  hair 

With  starry  shells,  and  buds,  and  leaves, 
And  sing  wild  songs  in  dreamy  bowers, 

And  dance  on  dewy  eves, — 
When  daylight  melts,  and  stars  are  few, 

And  west  winds  frame  a  drowsy  tune, 
Till  all  the  charmed  waters  sleep 

Beneath  a  yellow  moon  ! 

Here  men  may  dwell,  and  mock  at  toil, 

And  all  the  dull  mechanic  arts ; 
No  need  to  till  the  teeming  soil, 

With  weary  hands  and  aching  hearts  ; 
No  want  can  follow  folded  palms, 
For  Nature  doth  supply  her  alms 
With  sweets,  purveyors  cannot  bring 
To  grace  the  table  of  a  King ; 
While  Summer  broods  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  breathes  in  all  the  winds, 
Until  her  presence  fills  their  hearts, 

And  moulds  their  happy  minds  ! 


77 


TRIUMPHANT  MUSIC. 


AY  !  give  me  music  !  flood  the  air  with  sound  ! 

But  let  it  be  superb,  and  brave,  and  high ; 
Not  such  as  leaves  my  wild  ambition  bound 

In  soft  delights,  but  lifts  it  to  the  sky ; 
No  sighs,  nor  tears,  but  deep,  indignant  calm, 

And  scorn  of  all  but  strength,  my  only  need ; 

From  whence,  but  Music,  should  my  strength  pro 
ceed  ?  — 

From  some  Titanic  psalm  ?  — 
Some  thunderous  strand  of  sound,  which  in  its  roll 
Shall  lift  to  starry  heights  my  fiery  soul ! 

ii. 

Strike  on  the  noisy  drum,  and  let  the  fife 
Scream  like  a  tortured  soul  in  pain  intense, 


78 


But  let  the  trumpet  brood  above  their  strife, 

Victorious,  in  its  calm  magnificence  ; 
Nor  fear  to  wake  again  the  golden  lute, 

That  runs  along  my  quivering  nerves  like  fire  ; 

Nor  let  the  silver-chorded  lyre  be  mute, 

But  bring  the  tender  lyre, 

For  sweetness  with  all  strength  should  wedded  be,  — 
But  bring  the  strength,  the  sweetness  dwells  in  me  ! 

in. 
Play  on  !  play  on  !  the  strain  is  fit  to  feed 

A  feast  of  Gods,  in  banquet-halls  divine  ; 
Not  one  would  taste  the  cups  of  Ganymede, — 

But  only  drink  this  more  ambrosial  wine ! 
Play  on !  play  on  !  the  secret  soul  of  Sound 

Unfolds  itself  at  every  cunning  turn  ; 

The  trumpet  lifts  its  shield,  a  stormy  round, 

The  lute  its  dewy  urn,  — 
But  in  the  lyre,  the  wild  and  passionate  lyre, 
Lies  all  its  might,  its  madness,  and  desire! 

IV. 

Again  !  again  !  and  let  the  rattling  drum 

Begin  to  roll,  and  let  the  bugle  blow, 
Like  winter  winds,  when  woods  are  stark  and  dumb, 

Shouting  above  a  wilderness  of  snow ! 


79 


Pour  hail,  and  lightning,  from  the  fife  and  lyre, 
And  let  the  trumpet  pile  its  clouds  of  doom  ;  — 
But  I  o'ertop  them  with  a  darker  plume, 
And  beat  my  wings  of  fire  ;  — 

Not  like  a  struggling  eagle  baffled  there, 

But  like  a  spirit  on  a  throne  of  air ! 

v. 
In  vain  !  in  vain  !    we  only  soar  to  sink  ; 

Though  Music  gives  us  wings,  we  sink  at  last ; 
The  peaks  of  rapture  topple  near  the  brink 

Of  Death,  or  Madness  pallid  and  aghast ;  — 
But  still  play  on  !  you  rapt  musicians,  play  ! 

But  now  a  softer  and  serener  strain ; 

Give  me  a  dying  fall,  that  lives  again, 

Again  to  die  away  ;  — 
Play  on !  but  softly  till  my  breath  grows  deep, 

4 

And  Music  leaves  me  in  the  arms  of  Sleep ! 


80 


MEMORY. 

O  MEMORY  !  who  shall  paint  thee  as  thou  art  ? 
Who  shall  embody  thee,  since  every  heart, 
Shaping  from  self  alone 
Conception  of  its  own, 
Doth  o'er  thee  its  peculiar  mantle  cast  ? 
Sometimes  thou  watchest  o'er  the  solemn  Past, 
Like  sweet  Cordelia  by  the  couch  of  Lear, 
Smoothing  with  pious  hands  his  snowy  hair ; 
Or  young-eyed  Spring,  a  virgin  debonair, 

By  Winter's  shrouded  bier. 
Sometimes  thou  followest  the  reaper  Time, 

Gleaning  with  needful  care  whate'er  he  leaves, 
The  loose  ears  shaken  from  his  garnered  sheaves, 

The  relics  of  our  prime  ; 
Sometimes  thou  sittest  like  a  maid,  alone, 
In  pleasant  dreams  of  Youth,  thy  true-love  flown, 


81 


Reading  his  burning  letters  o'er  for  hours, 
Kissing  his  gifts,  and  all  his  faded  flowers, 
And  more  than  all,  the  miniature  of  old, 
Thick-set  with  jewels,  in  a  case  of  gold  ; 
And  sometimes,  full  of  grief,  thou  liest  in  tears, 
Within  the  solemn  sepulchre  of  Years, 
Clasping  the  urns,  and  scattering  flowers  above 
The  mouldering  dust  of  Hope,  and  Faith,  and  Love. 

Thou  hast  a  thousand  votaries,  Memory  ! 
A  thousand  happy  hearts  delight  in  thee  ; 

What  dost  thou  want  with  me  ? 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  so  ?     In  mercy  cease, 
And  give  my  tortured  heart  a  moment's  peace  ; 
I  have  a  hell  within  me,  —  is  it  naught  ? 
Why  stretch  me  longer  on  the  rack  of  Thought  ? 
There  are  some  chords  of  feeling,  tender  chords, 

A  touch  would  break,  they  are  so  nearly  broken ; 
And  some  impassioned  words,  but  bitter  words, 

Must  never  more  be  spoken. 
I  sigh,  but  oh  !  't  is  not  for  thee  I  sigh ; 
I  thirst,  but  pass  thy  maddening  beaker  by ; 
I  sigh  for  rest,  I  thirst  for  Lethe's  wave, 
And  hope  ere  long  to  find  them  —  in  my  grave  ! 
6 


HARLEY  RIVER. 

<*» 

THROUGH  the  midst  of  the  town  the  river  runs, 

Stealing  through  meadows  and  pastures  green, 
Like  a  gliding  snake  in  the  dewy  grass, 

A  moment  hid,  and  a  moment  seen  ; 
Winding  along  through  clover-fields, 

And  orchards  by  hawthorn  hedges  crossed, 
It  hurries  away  with  its  silver  feet, 

And  at  last  in  the  distant  sea  is  lost. 

It  lies  like  a  mirror  before  me  now, 

Glassing  the  sky  with  its  clouds  of  snow  ; 
And  long  green  grasses,  and  slender  reeds, 

And  bushes,  beside  the  margin  grow ; 
A  breath  of  wind  steals  over  its  face, 

And  ripples  a  moment  the  tranquil  tide  ; 
And  the  willows  dip,  and  the  long  boughs  drip, 

And  circles  are  spreading  on  every  side. 


83 


Hard  by  the  bridge,  and  over  the  dam, 

The  little  Mill  standeth,  old  and  gray  ; 
The  gates  are  up,  and  the  water  falls, 

Making  a  sleepy  noise  all  day  : 
The  heavy  old  wheel  is  turning  round, 

Grinding  the  farmers'  wheat  and  corn  ; 
And  the  chaff  floats  out,  and  the  yellow  meal, 

Like  golden  mist  from  the  fields  at  morn. 

A  little  way  out  from  the  rippled  shore, 

Where  the  flags  shoot  up,  and  the  cresses  float, 
Water-lilies  are  pitched,  like  tents, 

Or  the  folded  sails  of  a  fairy  boat : 
The  sand  at  the  bottom  is  flecked  with  shells, 

Hollow  on  hollow,  and  ridge  on  ridge  ; 
With  wavering  weeds,  and  shimmering  stones, 

And  the  mossy  wrecks  of  the  fallen  bridge. 

Here  the  boys  of  the  village  come  and  play 

Through  the  spring  and  summer  at  leisure  hours, 
Launching  their  argosies  dug  from  chips, 

Laden  with  pebbles,  and  weeds,  and  flowers  ; 
Wading  in  for  the  calamus  roots, 

And  lilies,  and  shells  that  pave  the  sand, 
And  sailing  out  upon  crazy  planks, 

Stoned  by  their  shouting  mates  on  land. 


84 


The  simpler,  straying  with  staff  and  scrip, 

Culls  his  rarest  herbs  on  the  brink  ; 
The  way-side  traveller,  dusty  and  dry, 

Stops  by  the  crystal  stream  to  drink  ; 
The  angler  comes  with  his  bending  rod, 

And  lieth  beneath  a  shady  tree, 
Feeling  his  line,  from  time  to  time, 

A  quiet  and  patient  man,  perdie  ! 

Wagoners,  urging  their  loaded  wains 

To  market,  water  their  horses  here  ; 
And  the  ploughman,  driving  a-field  at  morn, 

Halts  with  his  yoked  and  horned  steer ; 
Cattle  stand  in  the  cooling  tide, 

In  summer  noons,  by  the  insects  stung ; 
And  the  milk-white  lambs  and  the  shepherd's  dog 

Lap  the  water  with  panting  tongue. 

And  winters,  when  ice  has  fettered  the  stream, 

The  lads  come  hither  before  the  sun, 
And  skate  till  they  hear  the  school-bell  ring 

Its  morning  knell  of  frolic  and  fun  ; 
While  the  lesser  children,  muffled  up  warm, 

Drag  each  other  on  sleds  about, 
And  slide  in  a  row  on  the  slippery  paths, 

And  fall  in  heaps  with  a  mighty  shout. 


85 


When  I  was  a  boy  with  a  careless  heart, 

I  played  with  mine  ancient  comrades  here  ; 
My  foot  was  as  light,  my  voice  was  as  loud, 

And  my  innocent  spirit  as  full  of  cheer  ; 
But  wrinkled  and  careworn  now  I  stand 

By  the  river's  bank  with  a  throb  of  pain, 
And  sigh  that  the  days  which  have  passed  away, 

Like  its  waters,  can  never  return  again.) 


86 


THE  BLACKSMITH'S   SHOP. 

BESIDE  the  road  in  Harley  town 

There  stands  an  ancient  Blacksmith's  Shop, 
Whose  walls  and  roofs  are  dark  and  low, 

With  chimneys  peeping  o'er  the  top  ; 
Some  two  or  three  on  either  side, 
But  only  one  with  fire  supplied, 
Which  puffs  its  smoky  volumes  high, 
In  dusky  wreaths  along  the  sky. 

Harrows,  and  wains  with  splintered  shafts, 
And  broken  wheels,  are  standing  round  ; 
And  molten  coals  and  cinders  lie 

In  scattered  heaps  along  the  ground  ; 
And  in  the  yard,  beside  the  door, 
You  see  the  square  old  tireing-floor, 
With  grass,  and  weeds,  and  waving  sedge 
Bent  down  around  its  blackened  edge. 


87 


Fronting  the  door  the  anvil  stands, 

With  burnished  surface  broad  and  clear  ; 
The  rusty  pinchers  dropped  in  haste, 
And  heavy  sledge,  are  lying  near ; 
While  hammers,  tongs,  and  chisels  cold, 
And  crooked  nails,  and  horseshoes  old, 
With  all  the  tools  renowned  of  yore 
In  blacksmith  ditties,  strew  the  floor. 

Beneath  the  window  stands  a  row 

Of  dusty  benches  rough  and  rude  ; 
And  bars  and  files  are  thrown  thereon, 
And  vices  on  the  edge  are  screwed ; 
And  see  !  —  the  last  year's  almanac, 
With  songs  and  ballads  torn  and  black, 
And  battle  prints  by  sea  and  land, 
That  line  the  walls  on  every  hand. 

The  forge  is  in  a  little  nook, 

Before  the  chimney  slant  and  wide  ; 
And,  in  a  leather  apron  clad, 

You  see  tfie  helper  by  its  side  : 
Nodding  his  head  and  paper  crown, 
He  moves  the  handle  up  and  down, 
Beneath  his  arm,  with  motion  slow, 
And  makes  the  rattling  bellows  blow. 


88 


Hard  by,  the  blacksmith  folds  his  arms, 

And  swells  their  knotted  sinews  strong  ; 
Or  turns  his  iron  in  the  fire, 

And  rakes  the  coals,  and  hums  a  song  : 
But  when  his  heat  throws  out  its  light, 
He  hurries  to  the  anvil  bright, 
And  sledges  fall  with  deafening  sound, 
And  sparks  are  flying  thick  around. 

The  village  idlers  lounge  about, 

And  talk  the  country  gossip  o'er  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  farmer's  man 

Drives  up  on  horseback  to  the  door  : 
And  reapers  come  from  pastures  near, 
And  Ned  the  ploughman  with  his  steer, 
And  passing  teamsters  broken  down, 
O'erloaded  for  the  neighboring  town. 

From  morning's  break  to  evening's  close, 

In  early  spring  and  autumn  time, 
The  dusky  blacksmith  plies  his  craft, 
And  makes  his  heavy  anvil  chime  ; 
And  oft  he  works  at  dead  of  night, 
Like  some  deep  thinker,  strong  and  bright, 
That  shapes  his  stern,  laborious  lore 
In  iron  thoughts,  for  evermore  ! 


89 


THE   OLD   ELM. 

WHERE  the  bank  of  the  river  slopes  away, 
And  the  road  runs  down  to  Harley  bay, 
(A  sheet  of  glass  through  the  summer  day,) 
The  Old  Elm  stands 
With  its  knotted  limbs, 
Waving  their  leaves  in  the  ocean  breeze, 
The  pomp  and  pride  of  the  village  trees. 

'T  is  a  brave  old  tree,  though  its  trunk  is  dark, 
With  a  mossy  beard,  and  a  wrinkled  bark ; 
And  they  say  sometimes  that  the  early  lark 
And  the  swallow  build 
Their  nests  in  the  boughs, 
Where  the  birds  can  peep  at  the  azure  sky, 
Rocking  about  in  their  cradles  high. 


90 


In  the  sunny  Spring,  and  the  frosty  Fall, 
When  the  schoolboys  round  are  playing  ball, 
They  run  to  the  edge  o'  th'  garden  wall, 

(Where  the  peach-trees  stand 
And  the  currants  grow,) 
And  breathless,  sly,  with  a  shout  of  glee, 
Back  to  their  base,  the  glorious  Tree  ! 

And  truants  climb  in  the  emerald  spray, 
Up  to  the  top  where  the  swallows  lay, 
Filching  their  eggs  from  day  to  day  ; 
They  wave  their  caps 
At  the  screaming  birds, 

And  drop,  while  the  boughs  are  cracking  round, 
Scratched  and  bruised,  on  the  stony  ground. 

When  the  sky  is  bright  with  the  noontide  beam, 
And  the  cattle  wade  in  the  neighborino-  stream, 

o  O 

The  wagoner,  driving  his  heavy  team, 
In  a  cloud  of  dust, 
To  the  market  town, 
Turns  from  the  road,  an  hour  delayed, 
To  rest  and  dream  in  the  grateful  shade. 


o 


Summer  has  gone  with  its  bloom  and  sheen, 
And  sober  Autumn  invests  the  scene, 


91 


The  Old  Elm  doffs  its  robe  of  green, 
And  dresses  in  state 
Like  a  herald  proud, 

Shedding  the  leaves  from  his  giant  palms, 
Autumn's  largesse,  and  lavish  alms  ! 

Alas  !  I  am  like  the  fading  tree, 
And  scatter  my  foliage  fast  and  free, 
Illuminate  leaves  of  Poesy  ; 

A  bountiful  alms 
Of  golden  thought, 
Soon  to  be  swept,  by  a  solemn  blast, 
Away  to  the  dead  and  wasted  Past ! 


92 


LU    LU. 

LIT  Lu  is  soft  and  timid  as  the  dove  ; 
But  I  am  wilder  than  a  mountain  eagle  : 
My  matted  locks  are  darker  than  the  clouds 
That  lower  around  the  brows  of  stormy  hills  ; 
The  glances  of  mine  eye  are  like  the  lightnings, 
Shot  through  the  ragged  eyelids  of  the  storm  : 
But  when  I  think  of  thee,  my  sweet  Lu  Lu  ! 
No  child  can  have  a  heart  as  soft  as  mine. 

I  saw  Lu  Lu  at  daybreak  with  her  fawn  ; 
She  led  it  by  her  in  a  silken  leash  : 

\  O  simple  fawn  !  if  I  were  in  thy  place, 
I  would  not  need  a  leash  to  follow  her  !' 
The  dove  I  gave  her  yesterday  has  learned, 
Already  learned,  to  nestle  in  her  breast ; 
Too  happy  dove  !  if  I  were  in  thy  place  — 

/If?  if  ?  —  by  Allah  I  must  be,  or  die  ! 


93 


KAM    POU. 

Of  Kam  Pou. 

KAM  Pou  with  the  soft  blue  eyes, 
He  is  my  Uncle's  man  : 
And  Pou  Tsi  is  my  maid, 
The  sister  of  Kam  Pou. 

Of  Pou  Tsi. 

When  Kam  Pou  is  away, 
I  look  at  little  Pou  Tsi  : 
Her  eyes  are  soft  and  blue, 
But  nothing  so  sweet  as  his  ! 

Binding  Sheaves. 
Kam  Pou  in  the  barley-field 
Binds  his  sheaves  in  the  sun  : 
Float  over  the  sun,  ye  clouds  ! 
Lest  it  bum  the  white-faced  boy  ! 


94 

The  Uncle. 

My  Uncle  is  old  and  white, 
And  wise  —  in  his  own  conceit : 
He  says  I  must  wed  Vula, 
But  I  will  not,  dear  Kam  Pou  ! 

The  Garden  Call. 
Come  to  my  garden,  sweet, 
After  your  sheaves  are  bound  : 
Pou  Tsi,  your  sister  dear 
(And  mine),  will  open  the  gate. 

Beware  ! 

Look  out  for  my  Uncle,  though, 
His  eyes  are  sharp  and  sly  : 
And  he  will  slay  you  dead ; 
Then  what  would  become  of  me  ? 

Of  Vuld. 

I  will  not  wed  Vula, 
For  all  his  junks  of  tea  : 
But  thee,  whose  only  wealth 
Is  a  heart,  —  nay,  two  hearts  now  ! 

Art  back  again  ? 
What !  you  are  back  again ! 
I  did  n't  beckon  you  : 


95 

But  since  he  has  come  so  far, 
Pou  Tsi,  you  may  let  him  in. 

Shamefacedness. 
But  oh  !  he  must  be  so  still, 
And  never  look  in  my  face, 
Because  it  will  make  me  blush : 
(He  colors  up  to  the  eyes  !) 

Kiss  me.  Sweet ! 
Pou  Tsi,  run  back  for  my  veil. 
Here  is  a  screen  of  trees : 
You  may  kiss  me  in  the  mouth : 
Do  you  love  me,  dear  Kam  Pou  ? 


96 


A   HOUSEHOLD   DIRGE. 

"  A  six  years'  loss  to  Paradise,  — 

And  ne'er  on  Earth  the  child  grew  older." 

T.  B.  READ. 

I  'VE  lost  my  little  May  at  last ! 

She  perished  in  the  spring, 
When  earliest  flowers  began  to  bud, 

And  earliest  birds  to  sing  ; 
I  laid  her  in  a  country  grave, 

A  green  and  soft  retreat, 
A  marble  tablet  o'er  her  head, 

And  violets  at  her  feet. 

I  would  that  she  were  back  again, 
In  all  her  childish  bloom  ; 

My  joy  and  hope  have  followed  her, 
My  heart  is  in  her  tomb  ! 


97 

I  know  that  she  is  gone  away, 

I  know  that  she  is  fled, 
I  miss  her  everywhere,  and  yet 

I  cannot  think  her  dead  ! 

I  wake  the  children  up  at  dawn, 

And  say  a  simple  prayer, 
And  draw  them  round  the  morning  meal, 

But  one  is  wanting  there  ! 
I  see  a  little  chair  apart, 

A  little  pinafore, 
And  Memory  fills  the  vacancy, 

As  Time  will  —  nevermore  ! 

I  sit  within  my  quiet  room, 

Alone,  and  write  for  hours, 
And  miss  the  little  maid  again 

Among  the  window  flowers, 
And  miss  her  with  her  toys  beside 

My  desk  in  silent  play  ; 
And  then  I  turn  and  look  for  her, 

But  she  has  flown  away  ! 

I  drop  my  idle  pen,  and  hark, 
And  catch  the  faintest  sound  ; 


98 


She  must  be  playing   hide-and-seek 

In  shady  nooks  around  ; 
She'll  come  and  climb  my  chair  again, 

And  peep  my  shoulders  o'er ; 
I  hear  a  stifled  laugh,  —  but  no, 

She  cometh  nevermore ! 

I  waited  only  yester-night, 

The  evening  service  read, 
And  lingered  for  my  idol's  kiss 

Before  she  went  to  bed  ; 
Forgetting  she  had  gone  before, 

In  slumbers  soft  and  sweet, 
A  monument  above  her  head,      /^ 

And  violets  at  her  feet.        Jj> 


' 


SONGS    AND   SONNETS. 


"  Though  my  songs  are  somewhat  strange, 
And  speak  the  words  that  touch  my  change, 
Blame  not  my  lute.  " 

SIR  THOMAS  WYATT. 


101 


How  are  songs  begot  and  bred? 
How  do  golden  measures  flow  ? 
From  the  heart,  or  from  the  head  ? 
Happy  Poet !  let  me  know. 

Tell  me  first  how  folded  flowers 
Bud  and  bloom  in  vernal  bowers  ; 
How  the  south  wind  shapes  its  tune,  - 
The  harper  he  of  June  ! 

None  may  answer,  none  may  know  ; 
Winds  and  flowers  come  and  go, 
And  the  selfsame  canons  bind 
Nature  and  the  Poet's  mind. 


102 


SILENT    SONGS. 

IF  I  could  ever  sing  the  songs 
Within  me  day  and  night, 

The  only  fit  accompaniment 
Would  be  a  lute  of  light ! 

A  thousand  dreamy  melodies, 

Begot  with  pleasant  pain, 
Like  incantations  float  around 

The  chambers  of  my  brain ! 

But  when  I  strive  to  utter  one, 

It  mocks  my  feeble  art, 
And  leaves  me  silent,  with  the  thorns 

Of  Music  in  my  heart ! 


103 


AN    IDEAL. 

A  SOFT  ideal  long  beloved, 

But  long  beloved  in  vain, 
In  Memory's  gallery  hangs  alone, 

The  picture  of  my  brain  ! 

It  is  not  young  nor  beautiful, 
But  worn  with  sin  and  care, — 

Like  her  who  washed  the  feet  of  Christ, 
And  wiped  them  with  her  hair ! 

But  oh !  the  sweetness  of  the  face,  — 

The  sadness  of  the  eye  !  — 
It  haunts  my  soul  by  day  and  night, 

And  will  until  I  die  ! 


104 


SHE  left  the  world  in  early  youth, 

Without  a  sigh  resigned, 
To  wear  the  veil  of  thought  within 

The  cloisters  of  her  mind. 

The  vanities  and  cares  of  life 
Did  never  reach  her  there  ; 

Her  days  were  passed  in  holy  works, 
Her  nights  were  passed  in  prayer  : 

But  not  for  sorrows  of  her  own, 

Nor  sins  to  be  forgiven  ; 
Devotions  were  the  golden  rounds 

By  which  she  rose  to  Heaven. 


105 


THERE  's  a  new  grave  in  the  old  churchyard, 

Another  mound  in  the  snow, 
And  a  maid  whose  soul  is  whiter  far 

Sleeps  in  her  shroud  below  ! 

The  winds  of  March  are  piping  loud, 
The  snow  comes  down  for  hours ; 

But  by  and  by  the  April  rain 

Will  bring  the  sweet  May  flowers. 

The  sweet  May  flowers  will  deck  the  mound 

Greened  in  the  April  rain  ;  — 
But  blight  will  lie  on  our  memories, 

And  our  tears  will  fall  in  vain ! 


106 


SONG. 

-/'WE  love  in  youth,  and  plight  our  vows 

To  love  till  life  departs  ; 
Forgeifn!  of  the  flight  of  time, 
The  change  of  loving  hearts. 

To-day  departs,  to-morrow  comes, 

Nor  finds  a  weed  away  ; 
But  no  to-morrow  finds  a  man 

The  man  he  was  to-day.' 

Then  weep  no  more  when  love  decays, 

For  even  hate  is  vain  ;  — 
Since  every  heart  that  hates  to-day, 

To-morrow  loves  again.  // 


107 


A    PRELUDE. 

MY  desk  is  heaped  with  niceties 
From  tropic  lands  divine  ; 

But  this  is  braver  far  than  all, — 
A  flask  of  Chian  wine  ! 

Brim  up  my  golden  drinking-cup, 
And  reach  a  dish  of  fruit, 

And  then  unlock  my  cabinet, 
And  hand  me  out  my  lute  ; 

For  when  these  luxuries  have  fed 
And  filled  my  brain  with  light, 

I  must  compose  a  nuptial  song 
To  suit  my  bridal  night ! 


109 


IN    THE    HAREM. 

THE  scent  of  burning  sandal-wood 
Perfumes  the  air  in  vain ; 

A  sweeter  odor  fills  my  sense, 
A  fiercer  fire  my  brain  ! 

O,  press  your  burning  lips  to  mine  ! 

For  mine  will  never  part, 
Until  my  heart  has  rifled  all 

The  sweetness  of  your  heart ! 

The  lutes  are  playing  on  the  lawn, 
The  moon  is  shining  bright, 

But  we  like  stars  are  melting  now 
In  clouds  of  soft  delight ! 


109 


THE    ARAB    STEED. 

MY  beautiful  barb  is  swift  and  fleet, 

With  the  speed  of  thought  in  his  flying  feet ; 

His  eyes  are  large,  and  full  of  fire, 

His  nostrils  blown  with  royal  ire  ; 

He  pricks  his  ears  at  the  lightest  sound, 

Snuffs  the  air,  and  paws  the  ground, 

And  champs  his  bit  with  a  foamy  mouth, 

Looking  away  to  the  fiery  South  ! 

I  leap  on  his  back  without  saddle  or  rein  ; 

One  pat  on  his  neck,  one  hand  in  his  mane, 

We  're  off  to  the  desert  so  brave  and  grand, 

Outspeeding  the  pillars  of  rolling  sand. 

In  dust  the  drivers  and  camels  fall, 

And  the  whirlwind  covers  and  buries  all  ; 

But  away  in  its  van  we  fly  like  light, 

Where  the  groves  are  green  and  the  fountains  bright. 


110 


SONG. 

You  know  the  old  Hidalgo, 

(His  box  is  next  to  ours,) 
Who  threw  the  Prima  Donna 

The  wreath  of  orange-flowers  : 
He  owns  the  half  of  Aragon, 

With  mines  beyond  the  main  ; 
A  very  ancient  nobleman, 

And  gentleman  of  Spain. 

They  swear  that  I  must  wed  him, 

In  spite  of  yea  or  nay, 
Though  uglier  than  the  Scaramouch, 

The  spectre  in  the  play  ; 
But  I  will  sooner  die  a  maid 

Than  wear  a  gilded  chain, 
For  all  the  ancient  noblemen 

And  gentlemen  of  Spain  ! 


Ill 


SONG. 

THE  walls  of  Cadiz  front  the  shore, 

And  shimmer  on  the  sea  : 
Her  merry  maids  are  beautiful, 

But  light  as  light  can  be. 

They  drop  me  billets  through  the  post 
They  meet  me  in  the  square ; 

And  even  follow  me  to  mass, 
And  lift  their  veils  at  prayer. 

Bat  all  their  smiles  and  wanton  arts 

Are  thrown  away  on  me  : 
My  heart  is  now  an  English  girl's, 

And  she  is  o'er  the  sea. 

My  English  love  is  o'er  the  sea  : 

But  ere  a  month  is  flown, 
The  Spanish  maids  will  be  as  far, 

And  she  will  be  my  own. 


112 


THE  TWO  BRIDES. 

I  SAW  two  maids  at  the  kirk, 
And  both  were  fair  and  sweet : 

One  in  her  wedding  robe, 

And  one  in  her  winding-sheet. 

The  choristers  sang  the  hymn, 
The  sacred  rites  were  read, 

And  one  for  life  to  Life, 

And  one  to  Death,  was  wed. 

They  were  borne  to  their  bridal  beds, 

In  loveliness  and  bloom  ; 
One  in  a  merry  castle, 

The  other  a  solemn  tomb. 

One  on  the  morrow  woke 
In  a  world  of  sin  and  pain  ; 

But  the  other  was  happier  far, 
And  never  awoke  again  ! 


113 


I  SYMPATHIZE  with  all  thy  grief, 

As  though  it  were  my  own  and  more, 
For  all  my  loving  days  are  o'er, 

While  thine  still  last,  though  dark  and  brief. 

If  any  prayer  of  mine  could  save 
The  well-beloved  from  her  fate, 
I  would  not  cease  to  storm  the  gate 

Of  Heaven,  till  Mercy  shut  her  grave. 

But  prayers  on  prayers  are  all  in  vain  ; 
The  destiny  of  man  is  fixed  : 
The  bitter  cups  of  Death  are  mixed, 

And  we  must  drink,  and  drink  again. 

All  words  are  idle  :  words  from  me 
Are  doubly  so  :  my  soul  for  years 
Has  used  no  other  speech  than  tears  : 

But  these  I  freely  offer  thee. 
8 


114 


A   SERENADE. 

THE  moon  is  muffled  in  a  cloud, 
That  folds  the  lover's  star, 

But  still  beneath  thy  balcony 
I  touch  my  soft  guitar. 

If  thou  art  waking,  Lady  dear, 

The  fairest  in  the  land, 
Unbar  thy  wreathed  lattice  now, 

And  wave  thy  snowy  hand. 

She  hears  me  not ;  her  spirit  lies 
In  trances  mute  and  deep  ;  — 

But  Music  turns  the  golden  key 
Within  the  gate  of  Sleep  ! 

Then  let  her  sleep,  and  if  I  fail 

To  set  her  spirit  free, 
My  song  will  mingle  in  her  dream, 

And  she  will  dream  of  me  ! 


115 


THE  yellow  Moon  looks  slantly  down, 
Through  seaward  mists,  upon  the  town  ; 
And  like  a  mist  the  moonshine  falls 
Between  the  dim  and  shadowy  walls. 

I  see  a  crowd  in  every  street, 

But  cannot  hear  their  falling  feet ; 

They  float  like  clouds  through  shade  and  light, 

And  seem  a  portion  of  the  Night. 

The  ships  have  lain,  for  ages  fled, 
Along  the  waters,  dark  and  dead  ; 
The  dying  waters  wash  no  more 
The  long,  black  line  of  spectral  shore. 

There  is  no  life  on  land  or  sea, 
Save  in  the  quiet  Moon  and  me  ; 
Nor  ours  is  true,  but  only  seems, 
Within  some  dead  old  world  of  Dreams ! 


116 


ALONG  the  grassy  slope  I  sit, 
And  dream  of  other  years  ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  soft  regrets, 
Mine  eyes  of  tender  tears  ! 

The  wild  bees  hummed  about  the  spot, 
The  sheep-bells  tinkled  far, 

Last  year  when  Alice  sat  with  me, 
Beneath  the  evening  star  1 

The  same  sweet  star  is  o'er  me  now, 
Around,  the  same  soft  hours, 

But  Alice  moulders  in  the  dust 
With  all  the  last  year's  flowers  ! 

I  sit  alone,  and  only  hear 
The  wild  bees  on  the  steep, 

And  distant  bells  that  seem  to  float 
From  out  the  folds  of  Sleep  ! 


117 


SUMMER. 

THE  Summer-time  has  come  again, 
With  all  its  light  and  mirth, 

And  June  leads  on  the  laughing  Hours, 
To  bless  the  weary  Earth. 

• 
The  sunshine  lies  along  the  street, 

So  dim  and  cold  before, 
And  in  the  open  window  creeps, 

And  slumbers  on  the  floor. 

The  country  was  so  fresh  and  fine 

And  beautiful  in  May, 
It  must  be  more  than  beautiful, — 

A  Paradise  to-day  ! 


118 

If  I  were  only  there  again, 

I  'd  seek  the  lanes  apart, 
And  shout  aloud  in  mighty  woods, 

To  ease  my  happy  heart ! 

But  prisoned  here  with  flat  hrick  walls, 

I  sit  alone  and  sigh  ; 
My  only  glimpse  of  Summer  near, 

A  strip  of  cloudy  sky. 


119 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

"  King  Pandion  he  is  dead  ; 
And  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead." 

AWAKE,  thou  melancholy  bird, 

Thy  tale  of  ancient  wrong, 
For  every  shepherd's  heart  is  stirred 

To  hear  the  solemn  song. 

From  woods  of  Thrace  in  autumn  hours, 

No  longer  there  to  rest, 
Thou  cam'st  into  our  western  bowers, 

To  build  awhile  thy  nest. 

The  swallow  lagged  behind  thy  flight, 
Nor  yet  has  shown  her  wing, 

Though  skies  are  soft  and  full  of  light, 
And  groves  are  green  with  Spring. 


120 

But  vain  are  skies  and  groves  to  thee, 
Whose  days  of  joy  are  fled  ; 

And  vain  the  swallow  o'er  the  sea 
To  all  the  lost,  and  dead  ! 

Yet  wake,  thou  mournful  bird,  again  ; 

Again  thy  woe  impart, 
And  every  heart  that  hears  thy  strain 

Will  grow  a  kindred  heart. 


121 


TO  B.  T. 

THOUGH  Youth  is  fresh  upon  us,  we  are  squires 
Of  Poesy,  and  swell  her  shining  train, 
With  all  the  belted  knights,  whose  prowess  fires 
Our  hearts  to  do  what  noble  deeds  remain  ; 
The  golden  spurs  are  ours  ere  many  days 
If  we  are  true  ;  then  let  us  join  our  hands, 
And  knit  our  souls  in  Friendship's  holy  bands, 
To  help  each  other  in  the  coming  frays. 
Envy  and  hate  are  for  the  low  and  mean  : 
We  will  be  noble  rivals,  oftentime 
Crossing  our  spears  in  tournaments  of  rhyme, 
In  friendly  tilts  to  glorify  our  Queen  ; 
Friendly  to  all  save  caitiffs  foul  and  wrong, 
But  stern  to  guard  the  Holy  Land  of  Song ! 


122 


THE  Sun  pursues  his  starry  round  in  space, 

Alone  in  light,  but  not  alone  in  love  ; 

For   inhis  train  the  Moon  doth  climb  above, 

And  turn  to  him  her  meek  and  patient  face  : 

Alone  in  strength  the  forest  cedar  towers, 

But  not  alone  in  love,  by  love  embraced  ; 

The  vine  upsprings  and  clings  about  his  waist, 

And  at  his  feet  do  grow  a  thousand  flowers  : 

Nor  arc  the  flowers  —  though  none  their  sweets  repay 

With  kindred  sweets  —  alone  ;  the  summer  breeze 

Hangs  round  their  lips,  while  troops  of  loving  bees 

Lie  on  their  hearts  and  sigh  their  souls  away  : 

Why  then  should  I,  though  none  may  answer  me 

With  equal  love,  O  Love,  despair  of  thee  ? 


123 


TO  W.  J.  R. 

WITH   A   MANUSCRIPT. 

A  COMMON  weed,  a  pebble,  or  a  shell 

From  the  waste  margent  of  a  classic  sea, 

A  flower  that  grew  where  some  great  empire  fell, 

Worthless  themselves,  are  rich  in  memory  ; 

So  these  frail  lines  are  precious,  since  the  hand 

That  shaped  their  calm  precision  wastes  in  mould, 

And  the  hot  brain  that  kindled  them  is  cold 

In  its  own  ashes,  like  a  blackened  brand  ; 

But  where  the  fiery  Spirit  of  the  spell  ? 

Weeping  with  trailing  wings  beside  his  tomb  ? 

Or  scowling  down  the  ministers  of  doom, 

That  torture  him  upon  the  racks  of  Hell  ? 

To  bigots  leave  their  self-created  gloom, 

Not  this  is  Nature's  creed,  but  —  All  is  well ! 


1-24 


THE  GAME  OF  CHESS. 

WE  played   at  chess,  Bianca  and  myself, 
One  afternoon,  but  neither  won  the  game. 
<!Both  absent-minded,  thinking  of  our  hearts, 
Moving  the  ivory  pawns  from  black  to  white, 
Shifted  to  little  purpose  round  the  board  ;  f 
Sometimes  we  quite  forgot  them  in  a  sigh, 
And  then  remembered  it,  and  moved  again  ; 
Looking  the  while  along  the  slopes  beyond, 
Barred  by  blue  peaks,  the  fountain,  and  the  grove 
Where  lovers  sat  in  shadow,  back  again, 
With  sideway  glances  in  each  other's  eyes ; 
Unknowingly  I  made  a  lucky  move, 
Whereby  I  checked  my  mate,  and  gained  a  queen; 
My  couch  drew  nearer  hers^I  took  her  hand,  — 
A  soft  white  hand  that  gave  itself  away,  — 
Told  o'er  the  simple  stoiy  of  my  love, 


125 


In  simplest  phrases,  which  arc  always  best, 
And  prayed  her,  if  she  loved  me  in  return,  — 
A  fabled  doubt,  —  to  give  her  heart  to  me  ; 
And  then,  and  there,  above  that  game  of  chess, 
Not  finished  yet,  in  maiden  trustfulness  — 
I  'm  coming,  Sweet !  —  she  gave  her  heart  to  me  ! 


126 


• 


FROM   A  PLAY. 

ALAS  !  I  think  of  you  the  livelong  day, 

Plying  my  needle  by  the  little  stand, 

And  wish  that  we  had  never,  never  met, 

Or  I  were  dead,  or  you  were  married  off — 

Though  that  would  kill  me  ;  I  lay  down  my  work, 

And  take  the  lute  you  gave  me,  but  the  strings 

Have  grown  so  tuneless  that  I  cannot  play  ; 

I  sing  the  favorite  airs  we  used  to  sing, 

The  sweet  old  tunes  we  loved,  and  weep  aloud  ! 

I  sought  forgetfulness,  and  tried  to-day 

To  read  a  chapter  in  the  Holy  Book  ; 

I  could  not  see  a  line,  I  only  read 

The  solemn  sonnets  that  you  sent  to  me  : 

Nor  can  I  pray  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 

For  you  come  in  between  me  and  the  Lord, 

And  when  I  strive  to  lift  my  soul  above, 


127 


My  wits  are  wandering,  and  I  sob  your  name  !' 
And  nights,  when  I  am  lying  on  my  bed, 
(I  hope  such  thoughts  are  not  unmaidenly  !) 
I  think  of  you,  and  fall  asleep,  and  dream 
I  am  your  own,  your  wedded,  happy  wife, — 
But  that  can  never,  never  be  on  earth  ! 


THE    END. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OCT  17  104 

OCT  181S43 

o  \§& 

$3*  V3 

i 

'  ^V'^  ^K;    f    r~*\ 

^^ 

T&P 

.' 

LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 

1341723 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


•„ 


